


Paris Is Burning

by emma_and_orlando



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: (No Major Character Death) HIV/AIDS crisis, Angst, Crossdressing, Fluff, Freddie Mercury Needs a Hug, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Not Famous AU, Roger is a good friend, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:15:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27775957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emma_and_orlando/pseuds/emma_and_orlando
Summary: Freddie is casted out of his family home and finds refuge in the New York Ball Scene.
Relationships: Freddie Mercury/Roger Taylor, Roger Taylor/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 34
Collections: The Froger Week 2020





	Paris Is Burning

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! First of all: this takes place in New York 1986, the boys are in their early 20s. 
> 
> Another thing? Thank you all for participating in the wonderful Froger Week 🥰. 
> 
> This is going to be my 100th fic published on AO3. And with this fic included I’ve written over 500.000 words this year! A day to celebrate 
> 
> This is based off of the groundbreaking documentary Paris Is Burning, available for free on YouTube. I highly recommend it if you are interested in the queer community. But also this documentary shows how **Black Queer People originate most of pop culture and trends**. Wants to know where Voguing came from? Shade? Reading? Give it a watch ❤️ With some nuance of course, some of the ‘opinions’ in it are outdated now and it was directed by a white person. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!!

## Paris is Burning

* * *

  
  
The muscles in his thighs grow sore under the stress of unaccustomed exercise and his toes are forced to curl up in the limited space of his uncomfortable shoes. Nevertheless, Freddie keeps walking.

He has convinced himself that if he keeps walking, that he isn't looking for shelter. If he is not looking for shelter, he is technically not homeless. He's just taking a stroll. A mere wander around town. 

Being homeless would be just absolutely dreadful. 

So, Freddie keeps walking straight ahead underneath the fluorescent street lights to pave the way. It's pure luck it is not raining tonight like it has been for the past week. The sidewalk is still glistening wet from last nights downpour. The water seeps into his sneakers and dampnes his socks. Freddie could cry if it wouldn't make everything ten times worse. If it wouldn't mean admitting that he is in deep shit. 

He is accompanied by no one but his own long casted shadow curtesy of the streetlights and the haunting memories that echo through his head. 

He's always had that problem, remembering things too clearly, holding grudges and withholding forgiveness, sleepless nights and stomach cramps. His mum used to talk him out of those moods, give him an outlet for his eternal gloom, but he did not have her now. Not after tonight. 

It's all still vivid in his mind, playing in hot flashes every time he stares too long at one spot on the pavement. 

_His father had never yelled at him like that before. His face had morphed from ghostly white to flushed with anger. In a matter of seconds, the stifling overwhelming silence that had tensed the air into the fine thickness of concrete in Freddie's tiny stuffed bedroom, turned into a storm of words, strewn from his father's mouth with spit and rage, never to be taken back._

_He had found Freddie at the most unfortunate time in the most unfortunate position. Seated cross-legged on the rugged floor, in front of the full-body mirror, applying a thick layer of lipstick over his lips._

_"My only son is not a faggot. My first born child! You can't do this to us Farrokh. Not after everything we've let slide."_

_"How did you get that? Did anyone see you with it? Do you wear it outside the house?"_

_"I did not raise you like this. I do not care what they tell you in these American schools. I do not care what you see in your movies, you were not raised this way."_

_"I did not raise a faggot. What if it had been your mother who found you? Or your sister. What would you say to them? They cannot see the second man of the house in such a state."_

_"Twenty-three years you live under my roof, I did everything I could to keep this family afloat. How dare you bring your vile filthy ways into this house?"_

_Freddie had packed only one bag before he left. He shoved in the bare essentials only and whatever he had left in it by accident._

_He had stormed out of his room at record speed. 57 seconds._

_His father didn't stop him._

_On his way out the front door Freddie had rubbed the lipstick off with the back of his hand. When he hears his mother coming up from behind, woken up from the yelling, confused and panicked, Freddie hadn't had the heart to turn around and witness the heartbreak he himself felt inside, displayed on her delicate face._

_"Farrokh." She had called. "Where are you going? It is so late, come back inside. Farrokh!"_

He has no idea how far he has walked or how much time has gone by. The city of New York truly becomes a jungle of concrete when at night when one pays zero attention to the landmark details in their surroundings. He can't recognize this part of town. He doesn't know where he is. 

By the end of the vivid memory, Freddie's legs give out underneath him and he slides down the first available brick wall. Narrowly avoiding a puddle of rain, but next to a dumpster. Of course. 

His backpack weighs heavy on his shoulders when he leans forward to rest his forehead on his knees. 

_There he is._ He thinks to himself bitterly. _Homeless._

The words his father had spoken to him about him have left him to feel filthy in his own flesh. A part of him had at least expected his father tp go after him, perhaps there wouldn't be an apology, but at least he'd force Freddie to stop being silly and come back home. But, much to the burning shame in Freddie's heart, Bomi had not. And all thoughts of turning around and finding his way back home seems out of the question. 

He wonders what his father will tell his mother and sister about the reasons he had left, but it is a fleeting thought. He doesn't want to think about it anymore, not if he is already struggling to breathe without making up more terrible scenarios. 

He is sitting down on the icy pavement and his bottom is getting soaked with rainwater, he realizes then that he is by all means, homeless.

The thought makes his skin crawl and terror stream through his entire body. 

Just as tears begin to well up in the corners of his eyes a sudden burst of noise provokes Freddie to turn his head up and warily watch a group of loudly chattering people walk past. 

Instantly his brains send alarm bells to the rest of his body when he fears he's found himself in the bad part of the city, considering the many cracks in the pavement, the beat-up cars and garbage strewn about uncared for. There aren't many homeless people like him, at least. Which is why the group of persons stop walking when they spot him in the shadow of the brick wall. They offer him a mix of puzzled and pitying looks.

Freddie's heart is racing. He desperately tries to mind his own business and look at the ground as to not draw any unnecessary attention to himself.

To be sure, he rubs his hand over his lips again, making sure all of the lipstick truly is gone, in case he'd be a target of something his father would be all too indifferent about. If not supportive. 

Instead of slurs, racial or homophobic, Freddie gets surprised by a gentile voice that cuts through the wind whooshing faintly between the towering buildings. 

"Hey, hey you. Are you alright?"

Freddie looks up to see one of the men, lanky and short compared to his friends that tower over him. He wears a bedazzled blazer and red leather trousers to match the blazing eyeliner adoring his lazy bedroom eyes. 

Upon a second look, his friends are dressed in similar flamboyant genderless attire. 

Freddie sucks in a deep breath. At ease. 

The man separates from his group and comes even closer to Freddie and the brick wall. Freddie doesn't bother moving away after scanning his opponent down. Without his friends, Freddie could easily take him in a hypothetical fight. Although his kind smile suggests anything but violence when he hovers over Freddie. 

"Haven't seen you before here. What's your name?"

His friends have come to a halt a few steps behind the man, hanging around a light pole. They appear patient and unbothered by the sudden stop, as if this were a daily occurrence. 

Eventually Freddie's eyes dodge back to the man in front of him. "I'm Freddie."

The man crouches down and in the new position, his face falls in the light. "'S nice to meet you Freddie. I'm Roger. Are you alright over there?"

The air is punched out of Freddie's lungs when he gets a complete look at Rogers' ethereal features. 

A languid, knowing smile spreads across his illuminated face. The cockiness would usually put Freddie off, but right now he finds the man's attention alarmingly comforting in what could be the worst night of his life.

Rogers' presence dissolves the lump in Freddie's throat and he forces himself to speak, even when the words affirm that what he dreads the most. 

"I had an argument with my father." He finds himself saying, trusting, for no reason other than sheer intuition. "I had to leave the house. I'm not sure where to go now."

Eyes bluer than a Caribbean ocean soften at the admission. Suddenly a hand falls on Freddie's knee and gives him a squeeze. The warmth seeps through the denim to his freezing skin. 

"I'm terribly sorry to hear that." Roger says then, sounding nothing like a New Yorker or even an American. He rubs his palm over Freddie's kneecap, adding with a sideways nod over his shoulder, "Why don't you come along with us, if you have nowhere else to go."

Freddie's first instinct is to say no. Not only because Roger is a total stranger, but because he is fastly underdressed for wherever his friends are off to. At least half of them are wearing tall oversizex wigs, none are wearing flats and two have tutus on. 

But upon second thought, Freddie rethinks this reasoning and reminds himself of his own dire position. 

He can't remember ever being at such wits ends when it came to a lack of options.

With no other family members living in this country, his University friends are all in England, Freddie has no money to fly there England, nor does he know anyone he can crash with here.

That leaves him with two options.

1\. Hauling his wet ass up and following Roger and his very queer friends to whatever club they were going to raid.

2\. Stay on the ground and have more rain soak through his trousers. 

"Won't your friends mind?" Freddie asks timidly. The change of tide already has Roger beaming in victory.

He leaps back to his feet and offers Freddie both hands. 

"Of course they won't." Roger reassures him whilst rubbing his thumbs over the sides of his cold hands. Freddie's legs are weak even when he is pulled up and dragged towards the still-waiting group of friends by Roger. He resembles something like a golden retriever who found a shiny ball. He presents Freddie to the group with a jazz hand, while the other hooks around Freddie's arm. "Guys! This is Freddie, he's coming with us tonight."

The general reaction of positive lively hello's and nice to meet you's are generously given. Although a couple of them give his outfit a second glance. 

Freddie had put on the first pair of jeans he could find over his pajama shorts before he had left the house. He almost says something in his own defence, but then they are already walking and it's too late for excuses. 

There seems to be a vivid nightlife in this area that Freddie had not noticed while he'd been walking around wallowing in self-pity. 

He has no idea where they are, but he feels a lot more grounded now that he is surrounded by other people, preserved as part of a group even when in reality he isn't.

He allows their warm chatter to fall over him. He clings onto Roger a littler tighter than Roger holds onto him. His touch somehow both tight and appearing casual at once. 

Some street blocks later he is offered half a snicker bar by one of Rogers' friends with a blue wig that perfectly contrasts her dark skin. 

He savours the snack and nibbles on it slowly, knowing that his next meal will be an uncertainty. 

He hadn't noticed that he was being observed, but suddenly Roger fishes into his blazer and hands Freddie half a sandwich wrapped in cling foil. 

Any other day, Freddie would have at least pretended to hesitate and consider declining the offer, today though, he tightens the straps on his backpack and whispers a thank you before he sinks his teeth into the brown bread as soon as the plastic was out of the way. 

Roger is watching him eat with a funny look.

Maybe Freddie deserves it after intruding like he did and eating what is probably Roger's midnight snack, but it still makes him fidget. 

"What is it?" He asks when the puzzled look on Roger's gorgeous face remains and his friends are mostly distracted by something else. 

"Your English accent is very good. Woulda fooled any American." Roger smirks and deliberately bumps his shoulder into Freddie. "Where you from?" 

"I don't know." Freddie lies. 

The curious glint in Roger's eyes is purely innocent, but Freddie doesn't like talking about his heritage, his family's culture or where he was born. Roger picks up on his reservedness and Freddie is grateful when he drops it immediately with another firm squeeze of Freddie's upper arm. 

"Yes you do, but you don't have to tell me." 

He feels a little rude about it immediately, considering how generous Roger has been. He opens his mouth to apologize, but he is stopped again, only to be tugged into a side street that Freddie would never have dared jump into if he were by himself.

But Rogers stride is confident and ever prevailing, leading his group of friends into the alley without looking back. 

"Don't worry about it and come along." 

Freddie stays very close to Roger. Nervous. He glances sideways and for the first time he asks, "Where are we going?" 

The corners of Roger's lips curl upwards. He let's go of Freddie's arm even when Freddie tries to cling on. But their connection is only lost for half a second before Roger grabs Freddie's hand and lifts it in the air. He uses Freddie's arm to make a twirl, as if they were dancing partners and Freddie is the lead. 

On his second turn around, Roger pauses long enough to reply. 

"We're going to the ball."

* * *

  
  
Out of all places in the world, Freddie wouldn't have guessed for a ball to take place in a Newark nightclub. 

Roger brings him right through the doors, swung open by two broad handsome men who recognize Roger and the small party with acknowledging smiles. 

Club Zanzibar, as Roger had called it, is pleasantly warm from all the people who have already gathered inside the wide-open space. This does resemble something ball-like; high ceilings, bright lights unheard of in any club Freddie has ever visited, chairs along the walls, a stage at the other end of the room with a judges table and five people hunched over a bunch of papers. 

The people already inside are predominantly Black and Latinx. Freddie, although while embarrassingly underdressed, doesn't feel out of place. 

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Roger is looking right at Freddie, his eyes sparkling under the adorning lights on the ceiling. They are still hooked by the arms and Roger takes advantage of that by dragging Freddie along to a couple of the free chairs aligning the wall. 

Freddie knows he is bobbing his head faintly, suddenly overwhelmed with the warmth that contrasts the cold outside and the sudden influx of stimuli, noise, people, smells— why is everyone wearing such heavy perfume and hairspray? Sticky nauseating gluey smell shoots up his nose and suddenly Freddie is grateful when he is pushed down into a seat by Roger and his hands, cold and shaking are dragged into Roger's lap, who is sitting next to him. 

Freddie feels like a right idiot. His heart is racing, eventually he reopens his eyes. Roger is just smiling and squeezes his hands.

"This your first time around other gay people?" He asks in an understanding tone that doesn't feel as condescending as it could have been, had it been someone else spoken the exact same words.

Freddie shakes his head, although it makes the situation even harder to explain.

"I went to gay bars, in London. Back when I studied there." Freddie forces past his teeth instead of allowing himself to panic. "I just had a long day."

"You're overwhelmed." Roger says matter of factly, patting Freddie's hands with a soft sigh. "I can only imagine. I hope we didn't scare you off too much, it just looked like you needed someone to take you from point A to B."

"I did." Freddie swallows. Feeling pathetic for admitting it. "I do."

He thinks he is running out of his quota on words to strangers today, because the next words are stuck down his throat and he cannot force himself to spit more up.

Roger is not a mind reader. He looks a little confused, if not worried. Freddie is glad at least that his friends have broken up and spread across the ballroom to greet others who have shown up. No more six-people-at-once conversations tonight. 

He remains quiet and watches the people waltzing into the ballroom around him and he instantly picks up on an air of elegance, seriousness and pride.

There wasn't a dress code, it seems. Freddie is surprised to see people in military unfirom, leather, Golden Age Hollywood dresses and business suits all mingling together like it was the most normal thing in te world. 

The energy in the room is both comfortable and a little tense with nerves. He eyes the open floor and then the judges. He suspects it might be a dance competition, something he would enjoy watching, especially if Roger will be beside him for a little while.

Roger follows his gaze to the open wooden floors and smirks. 

"The house of Dupree is hosting tonight's ball." Freddie turns to look at him. And suddenly the same pride he picked up from the energy in the awaiting crows is plastered across Roger's face. "That's my house."

He wants to ask what a house is, but his throat is still closed up. It doesn't help that Roger is yet to stop caressing Freddie's hands between his own, slow and tender. 

"There are several houses, you see. The contestants who fight for the trophies represent a house. And a house, is a family. A team, a social group, but most of all a family. Every house has a mother, it's usually someone who has been in the game much longer than we have. They have seen more and done more than we have. They're true legends, we are just her children."

Roger can't use his hands while he speaks, but his fingers and wrists are twitching as if he wants to gesture as he speaks enthusiastically about his tribe. But the wild and dazzled look in his eyes conveys the same convincing message.

"Most of us don't have a blood family anymore, but we have our houses, who give us a new mother and a new reason to drag ourselves home every night after work."

Roger talks about the houses as if they were the most normal thing on earth, but to Freddie, this is all completely new. He is baffled by it. Surprised and hopeful. Somewhat.

He always worries, being a gay man, about how other gay people are doing elsewhere, while he was living closeted at home. It warms his heart a little bit more than it would if he was a happier man, that there are places like this, where people like Roger built a community to sustain themselves and their culture can flourish with no intervention of bigotry and oppression. 

Freddie relaxes in his chair and raises an eyebrow when Roger suddenly thrusts a leaflet in his hands. It means he has to let go of him. He eyes Roger warily, but the blond man insists with a kind smile.

"Have a look, these are called Idle sheets. They list the rules of the ball, the program and the houses that are competing. Of course you don't have to be part of a house, but we win the most prices, naturally. We are the most dedicated and refined, because we all help each other." The enthusiasm in Rogers' voice makes it hard for Freddie not to get excited to read a goddamn program book. 

He browses through it fast, noting that the writing reads almost like a conversation, rather than a rulebook. Don't argue with the judges, it says, leave the stage without commotion.

He looks up at Roger and finds he is still being looked at intently. 

At being caught staring, Roger doesn't flinch away or apologize. He just smiles brighter. "I'm not performing tonight, so I'll keep you company and you can ask any questions you may have throughout. I think you will enjoy it, especially now with the— Oh!" Roger jumps to his feet and Freddie instinctively jumps up to follow after him. Not that he is forgotten. Roger grasps for his wrist and Freddie is being dragged across the room again. He clasps onto his backpack for dear life as it nearly flies off his back with how fast Roger is moving. 

They are storming directly towards a group of people who have just entered the ballroom. Roger brightens up at the sight of them and they too pause their conversation to look at the two of them approaching. 

"Freddie," Roger pants when they come to a halt. "Meet my mother, Paris Dupree."

Roger's 'mother' is a tall black woman with a high hat and leather boots that reach her thighs.

A sly smile curls across her lips when she scans Freddie down. Freddie feels peeled naked to the bone under her gaze. He reaches out a hand to shake hers. She takes it and grips it too firmly. 

"Nice to meet you Freddie. Friend of Rogers?"

"More like a stray, so to say." Freddie cringes at himself, but Paris chuckles and Roger flushes charmingly. 

"Everyone is welcome here, I am sure Roger has made that very clear to you."

"Yes." Freddie promises when her voice turns stern. He doesn't want to get Roger into any trouble. "It's— I've never seen anything like this."

"Never been to a ball, then?"

Freddie shakes his head, rather sheepish. "What are they like?" He dares to ask the host of the ball he is attending. He thinks he might be pushing the hospitality now, but nobody has given him the idea yet that he is overstepping. 

Paris Dupree has a wonderful smile, but she is a little frightening too the way she towers over Freddie and her lean muscular build. "They are fun, the best place to be ob earth. If you take them too seriously, you're crazy. But the children definitely do."

"Are you calling your own children crazy?" Roger butts in, luckily, because Freddie is at a loss of what to reply. 

Dupree flicks Roger's nose and Roger pouts. It is all strangely domestic. Freddie's chest aches.

"Yes, I am. Now make sure Freddie gets a good spot to see everything."

"Of course." Rogers comforting arm curls around him again. Freddie has never get comfortable with the touch of strangers, not until today. He leans into Roger and allowed himself to be pulled off again. "Good luck ma!" Roger calls over his shoulder as they leave. Paris Dupree doesn't reply, her attention is with another person, perhaps another one of her children. 

Roger doesn't seem to mins. He brings them back to their previous spots and sits both down again.

It is nice for Freddie's legs to rest after the track he has made across New York to get the hell away from his family house. The knots in his muscles loosen and make way for aches that will remain for the time his muscles will need recovery. 

While they wait, various people approach Roger to greet him and meet the mystery man dressed as pure shite next to him. Roger is gracious and popular, two things Freddie is extremely jealous of.

People from across houses, genders and ethnicities have come over to make a chat, they all greet each other in various ways, but Roger seems to prefer receiving a small kiss to his cheek or the corner of his mouth. They all know each other, somehow. It must be a small community if they all do. Each of them is dressed like something out of a gay dream. Freddie saves a number of looks in his head to sketch out on paper later. People look breathtaking, bending gender, patterns and eras without a care in the world.

The ball hasn't even begun yet, but Freddie feels warm and fuzzy. 

He must really be fearing his prospecting homelessness, because the sense of home he gets, is undeniably gut-twisting and painful. At the end of the day, he is a guest and by the end of the ball, Cinderella has to leave and the spell is gone. The prince is gone. 

The thoughts are dark and cast a heavy cloud over his mood. His life is a turmoil. He has nothing. Not a penny to his name. No job. No home. Nothing but the contents of his backpack, the clothes on his back and Rogers hand in his own. 

It is a dire situation, but when the house lights go down and the only lights that remain on are the ones directly on the dance floor, a hush falls across the ballroom. One that reaches even within himself.

There is applause, true and thundering even if only from a few hundred people whooping and stomping their heeled boots on the wooden planks. 

There is a presenter, who is also a judge, someone from the house of LaBeija. One of the House of Dupree's big competitions. Nevertheless, Roger claps enthusiastically for the man, oozing excitement and wide-eyed anticipation. 

It is fairer, Freddie supposes, that the judges are people from across different houses rather than from one. 

He only then notices that the enormous trophies are lined up behind the judges against the deep red curtain decorating the far wall. They are sizable, larger than any he's seen before. 

Freddie almost musters up the courage to ask Roger a question when Junior LaBeija calls up everyone for the first round of the categories. 

Categories... Freddie remembers from the booklet, the categories are the 'themes' in which the contestants dress up.

The first category is Executive Realness. And Freddie is surprised when various people, men, women and everyone else alike, looks like someone plucked right off of Wall Street. Sharp pencil skirts, rimmed glasses, Ralph Lauren ties and Calvin Klein blouses. Everything is tailored to perfection. Each contestant takes the floor for themselves, walking, strutting, posing to the music blasting loud and deafening from the stereos all around them. People are in their elements, focused, serious, but all at once having the best time of his life.

Freddie holds his breath and dares not to blink. Afraid he will miss something. 

It is not a Cinderella ball. There are no hoop skirts or corsets, (okay, maybes a couple). This is far better.

This ball is something Freddie has never seen before. It is warm, passionate and fast-paced. Everything else is forgotten all at once. 

He doesn't care about the critiques or numbers the judges hold up to the contestants. He loves every single one he sees. He gets to look openly at the posing body's of people he finds immaculately attractive. Everyone is looking. People are there because they enjoy being looked at, popping their hips out and arching their backs. 

It is utterly earth-shattering when it is time for the prices to be handed out.

It feels as if the night had flown by and Freddie had wasted every second being in awe too much to admire what was happening right in front of him. 

The prices are handing out to people Freddie remembers adoring when they had conquered the stage for themselves. They walk up to the judges and make a commotion at being awarded. They deserve it. Freddie forces himself to smile, although it's watery.

He will have to leave soon, he thinks with a growing consuming ache in his chest, where anxiety is curled up in the hollow cavities in his chest. 

The thought of leaving makes his stomach twist. But the lights turn on and the dance floor is suddenly swallowed by people crossing the room getting to each other to chat, embrace and congratulate. 

Freddie knows it is time when Roger exhales and pushed himself up to his feet with a joint popping stretch. 

He turns to Freddie and gives him a small smile, before motioning for him to come along.

They immediately start heading for the door. Freddie's knees lock on instinct and he stops walking, he opens his mouth to ask Roger if he can hang around here in the warmth until they start clearing out the club a little later, but upon seeing the panic in Freddie's eyes, Roger again wraps his fingers around Freddie's wrist and pulls him along with a comforting tightness to his grip. 

Freddie cannot dig his heels in when the ground is made of slippery wood, made smooth from thousands upon thousands of dancers stomping down on it for many years. 

Roger brings him almost near the entrance of the club, but makes a B-line for a woman dressed as Marie Antoinette, powdered wig, fan and wired hoop skirt combined. He taps her on the shoulder, forcing Marie to turn around, only to reveal herself to Freddie as a man. One with thin pouty lips and deep honey eyes. Freddie blinks in confusion, the man in the dress makes a similar face, although less amused when he lands on Roger. 

"Enjoy the show, Blondie?"

"Enjoyed seeing your price go to Pepper." Roger grins wickedly, before clearing his throat and indicating a more serious conversation. "Actually, Deacky, I was wondering if you got somewhere for my friend here?"

Freddie realizes dumbly that Roger is pointing at him.

The Deacky person cranes his neck and gives Freddie a once-over. Taking a grim note of his attire, before turning back to Roger. "Can he pay rent?" 

Sensing his chance for an opportunity, Freddie lifts his finger, like someone would do in a classroom, and drops it again immediately. It got the mans attention though and he is looking at Freddie now instead of Roger.

"I'll start looking for a job tomorrow. I'm driven and employable." He promises. "I can pay rent before the end of the month."

"Hm." His eyes shift over to Roger again. They must know each other well, with how much he relies on Roger's judgement. "What's he like?" 

"Shy. Graduated art student. Recently kicked out." 

Another indifferent humming sound later and Freddie feels all hope deflate from his body just as the Mr Marie Antoinette gives in with a sigh. 

"I got someone."

* * *

  
  
Brian is very _normal_. Freddie knows he should feel a little ashamed for being surprised, but he isn't certain how someone like John, aka Marie Antoinette, knows someone like Brian May. 

When he opens the door to his apartment to let Freddie in, he looks like he has been woken up from his sleep. Which is sensible, considering the ungodly hour. 

He is the tallest person Freddie has ever met and wears a matching pyjama set. Not a smudge of makeup is in sight. 

Straight.

"You must be Freddie." He sounds British too. Perhaps that's how he knows John. Freddie offers him his hand and they settle on a handshake. "Come on in, quite cold out tonight."

"Thank you."

John had dropped Freddie off in front of Brian's building, but hadn't offered to come upstairs with him and only muttered the right flat number before driving off. Freddie can't mind the lack of curtesy, John had saved his ass and Roger had only asked John to drive Freddie there, not escort him to the front door.

Brian opens the door wide and lets Freddie into the cramped apartment.

Nothing in New York is spacious, but Brian has tried to keep the clutter to a minimum, which helps. Freddie looks around the living room-kitchen area, noting nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing to indicate that Brian himself might be queer too.

It's a grim contrast from the glamorous flamboyance of the ball to a two-bedroom apartment with white walls and a beige carpet matching laminate. 

Freddie straightens his shoulders when Brian comes up behind him and slides past him towards the kitchen. 

"John always has a way of finding people on short notice." He comments wryly, while pulling a milk carton out of the fridge. "Tea?"

"Please."

Freddie toes off his shoes by the door where he sees two other pairs of shoes lined up against the wall. He feels awkward and out of place again. He hopes Brian doesn't notice how uncomfortable Freddie is, just existing in this space he doesn't truly belong in. He shrugs off his coat and hangs it over one of Brian's because all the other hooks are taken. 

His fingers itch at his sides as he walks into the sparsely lit kitchen to sit at the dinner table. Backpack still slung over his shoulder. 

If Brian sees how uncomfortable Freddie is, he is decent enough not to say anything. 

Freddie sits down and dumps his backpack im the chair next to him. Brian graciously puts down the two teacups between them and pours them each their boiling water. He shows Freddie his impressive collection of tea-bags. Freddie doesn't feel particularly adventurous tonight and picks a Green Tea. 

"I'm very happy John managed to find me someone so quick. He's always damn fast when it comes to people. That man is like a living database."

Freddie takes his tea cup off the table to cradle in his hands. He looks at Brian from over the brim and offers a small smile.

Brian takes a seat opposite to him, seemingly relieved he gets to rest as he sinks into the chair bonelessly. If not gay, he seems nice enough. Freddie won't look forward to having to tone himself down around his own flatmate, but most heterosexuals don't pick up on the subtle signs. Not that Freddie took any of his drag wigs or lipstick with him when he left his parents house. 

"Not much of a talker, are you?" Brian smiles again. "John said something like that over the phone. Shy?"

Freddie's palms burn from holding the scorching cup too tight. Still he can't move, feeling the tension seep back into his body now that he has the quiet to contemplate on what has happened to him. What he had done. How stupid he had been to not lock his bedroom door while trying out the new lipstick he had bought that afternoon on his way to the grocery store. How he hadn't stood up to his dad. Or sucked it up. He had gotten up and left without a fight. Without grounds to return. 

"Just a long night." He murmurs when he can't think of anything else meaningful to say.

Brian nods in understanding. 

He _is_ kind. From the corner of the table, he slides over a plate of what appears to be homemade biscuits that Freddie hadn't noticed before. "You could do with a cookie then— chocolate, not raisins, I'm not a maniac." Brian smiles shortly, waiting expectantly for Freddie to take the offered goods and has taken an experimental bite out of it. Brian's eyebrows raise and he asks, "Good?"

Sugar and pure sweetness bursts out on Freddie's tingling tongue. It won't help him one bit falling asleep tonight, with the extreme anxiety and uncertainty that is twisting in his abdomen, but at least he's no longer hungry and managed to make his flatmate smile proudly when he bops his head up and down in affirmation. 

"Great. And I don't mind that you're shy— by the way. I do ramble sometimes and play a lot of music, which might be why my last flatmate left without much of a warning." He frowns, as if he just come to realize. 

Freddie assumes it cannot be worse than living in a house where he is filthy and foul in the eyes of the other residents

Brians apartment smells odd and the furniture appears uncomfortably worn by others before him, none of it feels like his own. Every inch of space he or his backpack occupy feels like an inch too much. 

Freddie feels like an unwanted guest. 

He is so out of place that he half expects to wake up from this dream-like out of body state at any moment in his single bed in the room next door to his parents. None of this happened. 

"I'm just glad John could find me someone on such a short notice." Brian continues, oblivious to Freddie's internal turmoil. "I couldn't afford to pay the rent by myself even if I worked overtime every day for a month." 

"I'm going to find a job tomorrow. I promise I have the money for the rent by the end of the month, I'll make sure of it."

It is the most he has spoken all night and they both seem taken aback by it. 

Brian lowers his cup a tad too fast and spills a bit of tea over the table top. Freddie just feels mortified. "Oh no, no." Brian's face visibly heats up in embarrassment. "John said that would all be sorted, I have no reason not to believe him. Or you. I'm sure it will be alright."

Freddie sucks in a breath. Feeling somewhat dizzy. 

"Okay."

Brian picks his drink up again, although this time he isn't so occupied with drinking as he is looking at Freddie's bag in the chair next to him. Freddie tries not to visible tense up again when Brian's frown deepens.

"Is that all that you have with you?" Freddie nods. Brian exhales through his nose and they finish their tea in silence. 

Later, he shows Freddie to his new room and turns on his heel immediately. 

Freddie works in silence settles his backpack on the desk and starts unpacking the few items he has managed to bring, Brian unexpectedly returns to his room moments later and leaves a bundle of stuff on top of Freddie's unmade bed. 

Freddie turns around to look at it and quickly realizes that the bundle includes a towel, bedding and a pillow. 

He almost tells Brian it's too much, he can't take it, although Freddie is in no position to refuse aid now. Brian watches his mouth open and shut at a loss for words. 

He puts Freddie out of his misery with another of his reassuring smiles. "It's yours now." He says, before he leaves Freddie to his new room.

* * *

  
  
He hasn't got a clue how to react when the following Friday, Roger barges through the front door to drag Freddie across town to his own apartment. 

"You came." Is what he decides to say, sounding young, breathless and taken-aback, like a wooed lady in an old Hollywood film. 

Roger's grin only widens at Freddie's infamous dramatics that has put a lot of people off in the past. 

Roger doesn't seem to mind. 

"I promised I would, didn't I?" Roger only gives him about thirty seconds to collect his keys and put on his shoes before he starts dragging Freddie towards the door. On the way out he waves over to Brian who's on the couch. They must know each other, because no formal introduction is necessary. "See you Bri."

"Leave him in one piece will you!" Brian calls out before Roger slams the front door shut with a careless bang. 

Freddie is too relieved and overjoyed with his arrival to think about anything else, like looking disheveled and not having taken a shower after work today and probably smelling like a boys locker room. This week has been filled with turmoil and uncertainty, to the point that Freddie did not recognize himself anymore when he looks in the mirror. 

Everything about his life has changed. 

He has work now, a job (his friends from London would laugh in his face if he told them that) that pays him the bare minimum, but it is at a clothing store on a high-end street, so at least he is never bored and they give him clothes to wear during his shift that promote the brand. He used to spend his days sketching, trying on makeup, sewing and looking at magazines. Now every day he returns from work with barely enough energy to drag himself the four stories up to Brians flat and naps until dinner, no time for hobbies. 

His diet is different now too, which he hadn't thought would make such a difference to his day, but it does. He is at the complete mercy of Brian and his white-bland-vegetarian pallet. It leaves a lot to be desired, but Freddie has no money to buy his own food and Brian has been nothing short from generous. But Freddie goes hungry a lot, and he misses his mother more than ever when Brian pulls out the unseasoned tofu "chicken" for the third day in a row. 

Freddie feels like a bird plucked from it's feathers without any of his belongings, they are missing pieces. He owns only two sets of clothes now and had to borrow underwear and socks from Brian when his flatmate had caught Freddie washing them every night in the sink. A large part of him hopes his mother will store all his things neatly in boxes for him and won't let his father throw it out. If he does though, Jer would know what items Freddie would want her to salvage the most. 

It has been a week from hell. To say the least. 

"I hope Brian hasn't been too insufferable?" Roger jokes when they have arrived at his apartment. He had graciously paid for both their subway tickets without allowing Freddie to sweat over it. 

It's another ten minute walk to Roger's flat. They walk alongside each other, fingers brushing on every step. 

The sun is setting between the buildings in the streets ahead. Freddie watches it lower through the reflection of Roger's eyes. 

Freddie eventually shakes his head to come to Brians defense, "He has been very accommodating."

"Making you feel welcome I hope?" Freddie nods. The corners of Roger's lips curl upwards. "Good."

They keep walking. Freddie keeps stumbling over his own feet for looking sideways at Roger at every opportunity. 

"I never thanked you for it." He says when he thinks his voice won't shake. "Hooking me up with Brian."

"We're a community Freddie. It's what we do for each other." 

Roger lives in a terrible neighbourhood. 

Freddie feels a little bad saying it, but it's true. It's close to where the Zanzibar club was located. During the day there are people scattered about, playing music from their stereos, gathering in groups, meeting in dark alleys. People are shouting and walking around in general unrest. Roger senses instantly that Freddie he is uncomfortable being around this many people at once, even when the sun is still casting light over town. Roger hurries them across the street to his flat. 

He keeps his judgements to himself although he strongly believes this apartment will be below Roger's bad. Many of the lights in the building appear to be on, although several windows are shattered and there are cracks in the red brick. Freddie swallows thickly when his eyes focus on bullet holes in the wall next to the door.

"Come on in, no need to worry, people don't tend bother you unless you've got business with them." Roger opens the door with his keys and despite his words, casts a look over his shoulder to scan the streets down, before pushing Freddie inside by his lower back. 

It's surreal that he gets to see Roger again. He feels like the only part of his new life that wasn't completely off-putting and uncomfortable.

Twenty minutes ago, Freddie was certain Roger would never come around and find him after their lovely night together. He had almost made peace with the thought of never seeing the blond bombshell again, _almost_ (contemplating drinking himself into forgetting as soon as he got his first pay-check). But Freddie is more than relieved to be led up two flights of stairs by Roger, who is very present and very real, talking in his high honeyed tone that lures Freddie into comfortable silence to listen intently. 

He brings Freddie into his apartment and swings the door open with a loud, but sweet, "Honey I'm home."

Freddie is pulled inside and immediately gets the sense of _home_ at the clutter, patterned rugs, tapestry's layered over wallpaper on the walls, a hundred houseplants and ten beanbags on the floor rather than chairs. There are pillows too, many, many pillows. 

There is soft music playing and the heater must be on its highest setting. The atmosphere is warm and overly comfortable. 

"Come on in, Fred. Take off your shoes and sit down, I'll get you something to drink, yeah?"

Freddie blinks after Roger owlishly, forgetting to nod, or breathe really, when Roger takes off his own coat and brushes his hand over Freddie's shoulder to pass him by. 

The kitchen is right behind a low wall and Roger is out of sight. 

Freddie gains enough composure to get himself out of his shoes and coat and leaves them where Roger left his. After shutting the front door, he walk into the living room and cautiously lowers himself into one of the ultra-soft bean bags. He melts back into the seat and shuts his eyes at the bliss of resting his sore muscles.

If someone had told him retail was such a bitch, he would have thought twice about leaving his parents house in such a haste. 

Freddie had not noticed he was drifting into a calm lull. 

"Quite comfortable?" A third, much deeper voice enters the living room and Freddie nearly jumps out of his skin at the intrusion. He blinks up to see who it is, a tall black man with a magnificent afro and the highest cheekbones Freddie has ever seen. He is taller than Brian, but bulkier too, like he works out. 

He would look more threatening without the baby blue t-shirt with a hard cartoon dick printed on it. 

Freddie jumps up to his feet, his skin crawls and all colour drains from his face when the man crosses his arms over his chest and looks down at him with razor sharp eyes. _Oh God this is Roger's boyfriend. Isn't it? Had he come home earlier than Roger would have thought?_

"Uhm— I, I was just. I swear I— We didn't do anything. I didn't know. I—" Freddie stammers dumbly, glancing back and forth between the door and the man's bare feet, trying very hard to calculate whether he should bolt or not. 

"Oh— hey, man I was just joking." His frown smoothens out into worry. "Make yourself at home, please."

He puts his hand on Freddie's shoulder and ushers him back down into the bean bag. To Freddie's credit, he doesn't flinch not protest even when his thighs are itching with the instinct to make a run for it. The man's touches are surprisingly soft and gentle for how big his hands are. 

"Roger, are you there?"

"Yes, coming right up— Hi." He rounds the corner holding two mismatching cups and brings them over to the living room where Freddie is currently being towards by the boyfriend. Roger comes to sit down in the empty bean bag next to Freddie, but not before pausing in front of the tall man and tilting his head up for a kiss. The man obliges with a snort and kisses Roger full on the lips.

Freddie quickly casts his eyes down at his socked feet. Heat rushes to his face. 

Roger has a boyfriend.

A very tall, strong boyfriend who could sling Freddie out of the window with one hand. 

"Trevor this is Freddie, the one I told you about."

His name is Trevor, Freddie is being scanned over now and by Gods mercy is given a nod of approval. Trevor glances back down at Roger, intently and he's still rubbing Roger's shoulder casually as he comments, "You were right. he does have the most glorious eyes." He looks straight at Freddie again. "Would you let me beat your face some time?" 

Freddie jaw drops. "Beat me—?" 

"It means doing your makeup." Roger nudges his boyfriend with his elbow. "He's new Trev." 

Looking genuinely apologetic, Trevor covers his face with his hands, mortified. "Oh! I'm Sorry!"

At least they're off to a good start.

Moments later, Freddie finds himself sitting on the floor across from Trevor, with an extensive makeup kit opened next to them on the coffee table. He is sad to say that he really likes Trevor and that he treats Roger as kindheartedly as he Freddie; with the utmost tenderness and respect. 

Sad, not because he wishes anything bad upon Roger, but because he has no other grounds to dislike Trevor, other than that he is dating the most magnified person Freddie has ever met. 

Trevor's hands are soft and his gaze remains both sharp and appreciative. He delicately holds Freddie's chin between his fingers and moves his face from side to side to keep everything symmetrical. 

Roger is the only one left standing with his hands on his hips a few paces away from them. 

"What should we do with her?" He asks. It takes a moment before Freddie realizes they are referring to him, about doing his makeup for another ball. The thought gets Freddie excited, this time he might get to participate. Or at least he won't look like the most heterosexual person in the room.

They both look at Trevor expectantly, apparently, he calls the shots around here. 

"I'm not sure..." He continues to study Freddie's face with calculating eyes. "Where are you from Freddie?" 

He forces himself to speak even when he feels the uncomfortable tingle in his neck.

"My family moved here from India." 

"So you are Indian..." Trevor lets go of him and taps his own chin with the back of a makeup brush. "I'm sure I could produce a sari from somewhere," His eyes lit up. "Make you an Indian goddess." 

"I'm not— I'd rather not. It's not for me." Freddie says a little too fast and a little too sharp. 

Trevor's frown is half worried, but half suspicious as he shakes his head with a series of tuts. "But that's your culture, love. Your culture is part of who you are. It's the framework for everything else." 

Freddie shakes his head. "Not for me." 

The two men in the room sense that he is not budging on this one and they graciously move on. Trevor gets started with the base for Freddie's makeup, while Roger walks over to the mirror on the wall right above the light to do his own makeup there. Trevor is good with makeup, and it turns out that he is a makeup artist by profession and even goes to school for it. 

His family, who live in the south, are paying for the apartment for as long as he stays in school. Roger jokes about being a parasite that lives off his back, but Trevor will have none of it and explains that it isn't even his own money that goes into the apartment. 

They have an interesting dynamic. They are both playful, although Roger appears more chaotic and loud, where Trevor seems tranquil and quiescent. 

It compliments each other well, their conversation flows easily through the familiar warmth between them that fills the apartment. They talk about Reagan, the Soviet Union and the Chernobyl disaster last April, they talk about the Color Purple and why Out of Africa won best picture because of systemic racism. They disagree on the founding of Tutankhamun's tomb this year and what should be done with it, but they keep the conversation light and open for challenges. Roger ends arguments with saying, "But I guess that's just my way of looking at it." To which Trevor says, "Whatever you say, dear."

Freddie is envious in the most flattering sense of the world. That this is all that he wishes to have one day. 

Under Trevor's careful hands, his face gets painted to perfection. They talk in more hushed tones now that they are both concentrating on the details of their makeup. 

"So if Freddie here is new, does she know the ball history?" Trevor asks through slack lips, focusing on the lip-liner he shakes past the curve of Freddie's lips. 

Roger's makeup is half on, it's only the base and the first layer of eyeshadow. He looks gorgeous nevertheless when he turns around to ask Freddie pointedly, "Do you?"

He manages to murmur a soft no without moving his lips, much to Trevor's delight.

Roger hums and pushes his a stray strand of hair back into his bun when it starts to bother him. He is standing on his tip-toes, looking at himself in the mirror and trying to layer his eyeshadows on the same way on both eyes. 

"At the beginning in the late nineteenth century, members of the underground LGBTQ+ community in large cities here in the states began to organize masquerade balls to meet up in secret. These balls were known as "drags" in defiance of laws which banned individuals from wearing clothes associated with the opposite gender. Back in the day white people owned the balls." Roger purses his lips together in displeasure. A similar look appears on Trevor's face. "The judges, they were always white even if the balls were integrated. This meant that Black people and Latinos were excluded from the prizes. So, fed up with the racist bullshit, they started their own balls." Roger tells Freddie with a growing smile. "Better balls where their own people were being celebrated."

"And they let you in?" Freddie asks seriously, although it causes Trevor to burst out laughing.

Roger is unphased and turns back to the mirror with a gleeful smile. "Unlike those balls, there is a place for everyone here. The point of the ball isn't just to play secret dress-up anymore, of course. We do all kinds of things now for all kinds of reasons. It gives people their five minutes of fame, or something to look forward to in the drag of life. The categories satirize gender and social classes, while also offering an escape from reality. It's perfect."

Freddie understands the appeal of it. He understood it before, without knowing the history or anyone who was competing at the ball, but he gets it a lot better now. 

His yearning for the ball grows to obnoxious levels, to the point where he struggles to sit still for Trevor to finish his makeup. 

When he truly begins to fidget at the prospect of what's to come when they leave the apartment tonight and Trevor is one huff away from telling him to sit his ass down, he fixates on Roger to allow himself to get distracted, who is almost done dressing up, but with his back strategically turned to Freddie and the mirror angled so that Freddie can't see his reflection, his look remains a complete mystery.

They had decided on Liza Minnelli during her Cabaret performance, for Freddie's makeup and outfit. 

He has always loved Liza and the weight of his eyelashes and collar around his neck feel completely natural to his self. Freddie feels like a peacock spreading its wings, too powerful and ready to strut the world down under the weight of his own magnificence. And he hasn't even seen what he looks like yet (although glueing down his eyebrows to draw new ones on top had felt dreadful). Just the process of stripping him down to the basics with a cleanser and some skin softening moisturizer, to being build up by concealers and powders until he felt whole again. A shield-like armour around his fragile exterior. For the first time this week, even when he is transported into a completely different person from a different gender and world, he feels like himself and musters up the courage to speak up when they have fallen into a comfortable silence.

He is still fixated on Roger's behind. All he can tell is that he is wearing a skintight golden gown and a fur coat. That and his blonde wig don't exactly give it away, so Freddie asks. 

"Who are you doing tonight?" 

Upon hearing the question, Roger slowly spins around and poses with his fake tits forward and his red layered lips pouting out, fur coat held shut with his hands although an expensive diamond necklace peaks out from underneath. 

Roger blinks slowly under the weight of the heavy false lashes. "Happy birthday to you, Happy birthday to you..." Roger takes a seductive step forward. Voice breathy and high pitched. "Happy Birthday Mr President." 

"Marilyn." Freddie sounds a little breathless himself. Trevor is snickering and Roger is looking outright smug. "You're Marilyn." 

Freddie would care more about being teased if he didn't feel so goddamn alighted even being allowed to take part in this, let alone be invited into their house and treated with the same care Roger would usually be tended to by his boyfriend. 

Eventually, Trevor finishes doing Freddie's makeup and gets up to find the right wig from his extensive collection in his and Roger's shared bedroom. 

Freddie refrains from looking in the mirror before the wig, wanting the illusion to be complete before he gets a peak. 

Roger has trouble moving around in the dress. He waddles over to Freddie and needs help getting down to the floor, but Freddie gladly helps him bend and sit on the empty spot beside him. Up close his makeup is even more magnificent. Roge must have studied Marilyn for hours, because every single detail on his face seems perfectly in place. A copy of hers. From the shadow of his lashes under his eyelids to the birthmark on his left cheek, he is Marilyn Monroe. Once they are settled side by side, Freddie clears his throat, twirling his thumbs. 

"So, Trevor huh."

Roger can't bite back his grin. "Yes?" 

Freddie thinks Roger should have said something before bringing Freddie over to his apartment he shares with another man, a small part of him feels led on. Although Roger has done nothing but give and give and give, so Freddie really has no right to feel that Roger was in the wrong leaving out the part that he wasn't giving Freddie things to hook up with him. 

"Seems like a nice boyfriend." He goes for, it causes Roger's smile soften and reach out to take Freddie's hand in his own. 

"He's not my boyfriend, we just live together." He explains, but Freddie isn't having it. He remembers the kiss the two shared in front of him and how tender and domestic it had been. How long their eyes had lingered. He remembers it all too well. 

He narrows his eyes. "You live together _and_ have sex." 

Once again he isn't joking, but still Roger manages to break out into a fit of chuckles, before flicking Freddie's nose playfully. 

"Very observant of you."

* * *

  
  
Seeing Roger walk in the ball was something completely different from watching other people walk.

It had been a magical experience the first time around. The atmosphere in the room compared to nothing Freddie has ever witnessed before, the enthusiasm, the cheering; this is how the people of Rome looked at the Gladiator races. Only they aren't enslaved and wear much higher heels. 

It almost feels disrespectful to call him Roger in his head when Roger is playing so well at being a woman. Others had called him Liz, Liz Taylor. But Freddie has yet to get used to that. 

The dress still makes it difficult to move around, but the discomfort is not visible on Roger's features. He looks and acts every inch as Marilyn Monroe. The way he tilts his chin, the manner in which he pushes his lips out and hoods his eyes as he crosses the large open floor, the battle ground. His wonderful diamond necklace catches the light and brings out the twinkle in his eyes. His heels click-clack gracefully over the wood. He looks amazing. So ethereal and bedazzled that Freddie imagines diamonds falling down as dust clouds around him. 

Roger pauses in the middle of the floor, just as Prince (through the music playing) takes a deep breath, and the track continues with a clap of thunder and dramatic, "Purple rain— Purple rain."

Roger shrugs his fur coat to the floor, exposing his bare shoulders in one elegant feminine dip.

Even Freddie gets up to his feet to applaud along with the crowd.

Marilyn Monroe wouldn't smirk that way, that is 100% Roger, but luckily his back is turned to the judges and they don't see it. 

He finishes his set with a deep bow and a heavy wink, waving the way royalty would, flowing and hand cupped gently in the air. 

"Liz Taylor everyone, representing the house of Dupree." The presenter calls out. 

The judges hold up their signs after Roger has received another round of applause. Freddie is not surprised when all of them are 10's, except for one 9. Roger likely isn't surprised either, he's spent at least hundreds if not a thousand on that dress and that wig is made of real human hair. 

Nevertheless, his eyes lit up as he squints at his score. His arms rise up to the ceiling and he cheers.

Freddie chuckles, watching people scramble after Roger trying to return his fur coat while he storms across the ballroom to fly into his proud Mother's open arms. 

There are different categories and different rounds. Not everyone gets into the ball to compete over the large trophies lined behind the judges, many people in fact aren't dressed up at all, they dance and prance about in track suits, sweaters and shorts. Nothing fancy like Roger's nightgown or John's Marie Antoinette a week ago. 

It is less intimidating, wedged between a bare-chested woman playing a Viking and lined up after him a mermaid with shells for a bra and a tail made out of plastic bags. 

Freddie has very little reason to feel as nervous as he does. He acknowledges that he looks better than them both, in his Liza Minnelli Mein Herr outfit, a skintight jumpsuit and stockings clinging to the shaved legs. 

Trevor hasn't come along, complaining about homework, but Roger is there as soon as his Mother lets him go to check up on Freddie's makeup in Trevors place.

He is still riding on his own high while he tends to Freddie, seconds before it is his turn on the stage. 

The girls viking song comes to an end. Freddie eyes the open floor warily. Worried that, despite his notably better makeup and nicer clothes, he will be a lot less crowd-pleasing than her open smile and bare bosom.

"Roger..." 

Roger shushes him before he can start. He layers another lick of lipstick over Freddie's lips. Roger uses his finger tips to paint. The soft touches helps Freddie relax. He inhales sharply and notes Roger is wearing some expensive perfume. 

"Deep breaths, you'll be fine."

"I haven't practised." Freddie counters. He looks back and forth between the viking and Roger. He is nowhere near as confident as either. His heart begins to race. This was a bad idea. "Fuck, oh no. I don't think I—" 

"Will you shut up and just do it?"

Roger lowers his hands and huffs. It is quite the mindfuck to be told off by Marilyn Monroe. 

Freddie presses his lips together and obliges. 

"Good." Roger breaks out into an easy smile again, but straightens Freddie's hat. "You look beautiful." He sighs, wide-eyed and dreamy. Freddie's mouth goes dry. "You're the most beautiful person in the room right now."

"I am?" Freddie stammers.

"Remember that while you're up there— now go. Go!"

Roger gives him the slightest push and with a gasp and stumble, Freddie is pushed out onto the open floor and is welcomed with a round of applause. 

"Everyone, please welcome new to the scene, our beloved Melina Mercury."

Freddie finds his balance almost immediately, strangely comfortable on his heels and how he is elevated off the floor. On the tips of his toes he feels sharper and hyper-aware of his surroundings. 

He allows himself to find Rogers eyes in the crowd and promptly ignore everyone else. 

It seems deliberate. He makes it appear like he just choose someone out by random— the music begins to play, Roger winks just as Freddie points his finger out to him and begins strutting at the first familiar and muscle stringing piano keys of Mein Herr. Liza Minnelli's warm voice guides Freddie's body into fluid movements. 

It is barely dancing, he is simply moving, crossing the room rolling his shoulders, curling legs and pausing when the music does, jerking his legs when the music does.

People are loving it.

He is shy at first, understandably so, but several seconds in, the music speeds up and Freddie suddenly _is_ dancing. He prances around the floor, the outfit hugs his skin just perfectly. He is elevated under the hot stage light and he isn't even looking at Roger anymore. There are hundreds of eyes on him and they are all equally hot and focused on the languid, flexible movements of his body.

Freddie is positively transformed. The applause becomes deafening, thundering over the music which is already a tricky track for continuously speeding up, but Freddie has seen the movie a hundred times and knows the number by heart.

The spirit of Liza that has possessed him walks right into the crowd to drag one of the chairs into the middle of the dance floor.

Like in Cabaret, Freddie drops his ass onto the chair, throws his leg straight up in the air and wraps it around the back of the chair, stretching the muscles to the max, but he doesn't care, it earns him the wild encouragement of the crowd that makes his ears hot and his heart swell with pride.

All the eyes are on him. It feels good, natural and he never wants to leave the comfort of the attention. He was born to do this. 

He will never be the same again.

* * *

  
  
He can't take the trophy home without Brian asking any questions so he leaves it at Rogers place, who tells him with a cheeky grin, "Don't give me a weird look when you never see it again." 

The ball had changed Freddie. The adrenaline that had mixed into his bloodstream had left him higher than any cocaine or weed has ever taken him. 

Coming back down from it had sucked, especially when he had to go back to the normal world, the world where men wear trousers and women wear heels. The world where girls have to doll up for job opportunities and men have to toughen up to make it across the street. The normal world offers nothing comforting, only heteronormativity. At least it's predictable. 

He works, every single day, and waits anxiously for the minutes to tick by for when he gets to see Roger again. 

Roger had been astonished when he found out Freddie truly worked nine to five shifts, six days a week. 

Roger's lifestyle is more modified to the Ball culture. He doesn't have a job, really. He does 'things here and there', or so he had said. Trevor had translated it for Freddie and explained Roger steals, a lot. Which had explained the expensive dresses, perfume and lace front wigs. It is very normal, apparently, for Roger and his friends to do odd jobs to make a living but conform to the world as little as possible. 

The American work culture is toxic anyway. 

He had offered to teach Freddie how to do it, steal and swindle, but after giving it considerable thought he had declined. Although his job makes him want to off himself five out of the six working-days, at least he knows there's the certainty of a hard earned paycheck. He already has a target painted on his back. He doesn't want to be a thief too.

So, Freddie works on the side, he earns money to pay rent and the bills that leave nothing for the balls. Bd doesn't want to steal for outfits, so Roger and Trevor always make sure to share their collection.

At night Freddie goes out to town with Roger to the clubs and the less frequent balls. 

There isn't a ball every single day, much to Freddie's dismay. They occur about twice a month, sometimes three when someone is generous in organizing. 

It takes people a while to prepare for them, especially those who are iffy about being outfit repeaters (Roger). 

People get crafty, not just with stealing from high-end brands, but learning how to sew their own assemble together. They study Vogue and old Hollywood posters to try and copy the ultimate level of virtue. 

The balls make everyone a performer. Freddie learns to respect those who don't steal pink Chanel suits to make an impression at the ball. Or those whom he considers physically less attractive.

Those three minutes on the floor gives everyone a moment in the spotlight. A moment to prance, practice gymnastics, to vogue their hearts out.

For those few seconds everyone is watching you and you alone. You can feel the heat of their gazes burn on your body and you want nothing more but to stay there forever, until your clothes and then your body shrivels up from the blaze. 

"You seem very interested." 

Roger nudges his shoulder and chuckles heartedly when Freddie jumps, caught off guard. He hadn't noticed he began staring into space, but when his eyes refocus, he notices that they have moved onto the BDSM category. A man, near nude, is kneeling on the floor next to a girl dressed in all leather. She has him on a leash and pulls tight to make him gasp audibly for everyone to hear. She pets him on the head, like the good boy he is. Freddie swallows thickly. 

He turns his head to see Roger still looking intently at him. Freddie opens his mouth and the words are already leaving his throat while his brain has yet to approve of the message.

"Maybe we should go as a pair next time." 

"We?" Roger asks, somewhat surprised but not unenthusiastic. He points at the couple over his shoulder. "In the BDSM category?"

Freddie swallows thickly and forces himself not to back out. "Yes. Why not?"

Roger blinks. And it is rather the victory to have Roger caught off guard. Although it doesn't last. Roger leans back into his chair with a thoughtful hum, whilst nodding without looking at Freddie anymore. Engrossed with the leather dressed couple occupying the floor. "Why not."

* * *

  
  
"Roger." Roger rolls his eyes as Freddie keeps him from strolling into the shop. He grips his wrist to pull them to the side. He hunches over in trying to appear as small as he can. He is already started to sweat profoundly. _God_. "I don't think I can do this."

"You're overthinking it." Roger says without a pause. "The first time is scary, but you'll never be able to resist the urge again."

"Okay, first of all. You have a shoplifting problem."

Roger shushes him, quickly glances around to make sure nobody heard. Freddie wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. This is why he shouldn't have gone with him. When the coast is clear, Roger tugs his wrist free. For a split second, Freddie is sure he has fucked up, but is reassured again by a gentle caress over the inside of his palm. 

"We call it mopping, okay? Don't use terms the straights can understand." Roger lowers his tone more discreetly now. He has to lean in close for Freddie to hear him, not that Freddie minds. This close he can smell the conditioner in Roger's hair and the mint of his bubblegum. "It's simple. We go in, I cover you, mop the outfit and don't do anything until I say u can yeah?"

"Alright..."

Freddie bites his lower lip.

"And you stop looking so nervous right now. We saw the gear we wanted in the magazine, so no loitering beforehand. We locate it, grab it and dip. Yeah?"

"Yeah." Freddie swallows thickly. "Alright. Yes."

"We got a target, so we can be quick." Roger opens his coat and motions for Freddie to do the same. They are both wearing fur. Freddie's is borrowed from Trevor, but it fits him well. It will be easier to hide things under something so bulky. Besides, they look richer and less suspicious in hanging around here. Roger smooths his hair down and nods. "Ready? Take a deep breath."

Freddie inhales. His ribs will bruise with how fast his heart is beating, but at least he manages to reign in his fascial expression enough for Roger to confidently push him into the store first.

_Fuck._

He keeps his head down to hide behind the tall clothing racks around the store which hide him from the cash register in the back.

A terrible layout design, really. 

Roger must have thought the same when he had chosen this particular store to steal from.

He feels his friend right behind him, pushing Freddie along and checking the racks to see if they can find the leather bindings they had seen in the magazine. 

Roger had chosen a Saturday for this, during Freddie's lunch break. This means the store is filled with tourists and people speaking in different tongues, dressed in loud obnoxious colours. Roger and Freddie for the first time in their lives, blend right into the background, an odd idea really if you've ever met either of them. 

Much to Freddie's inexperienced surprise, it is him who finds the article of clothing first.

Clothing is a very liberal word for what appears to be leather straps all bound together to make some kind of faux coverup of a minimum amount of skin.

"You found it." A sly grin spreads across Roger's face. He pushes Freddie towards the dress and crowds him against the rack. His eyes shift back and forth between Freddie and the damned thing suggestively. 

Freddie's eyes widen. "No. You do it."

Roger presses his lips together and shakes his head.

It looks like he won't budge an inch, although the plan had been for Freddie to grab it, he had figured that if he chickened out at the last minute, Roger would just roll his eyes and take over with one of his boyish smiles and a 'See how easy that was'. 

But Roger doesn't do that. No. He plants his feet on the floor and gives Freddie a hard look. 

"Fuck. You're shitting me?" Freddie gnaws on his lip. He looks behind him and then cranes his neck to cast a look over Roger's shoulder. Both sides of the aisle are empty. Freddie shuts his eyes and swallows past the lump in his throat. Even his fingertips are sweating. "You're really making me do this?"

Roger says nothing.

"Oh fuck."

Freddie feels his soul leave his body as he slips the leather item off its hook in one fluid slide. It drops into his hands and then, without thinking, without a second of doubt, he slips it into the waistband of his trousers and shuts his fur coat to hide all evidence of what he just did.

Roger looks immensely pleased. For Freddie the worst has just begun. He is wearing illegal goods in his pants. 

"Okay, now is a crucial time." Roger grabs him by the arm and leads him further into the store. Every single nerve in Freddie's body jumps. He wants to protest and instead drag Roger towards the exit as fast as possible. But Roger practically does this for a living. And Freddie is hardly a career criminal yet. Roger gives him a levelled look, fingers flexing on Freddie's arm. "We are going to make a spin around the store, take a look at a number of things, make sure the shop owner sees us act normal and then we leave, understood?"

He is actually dying now. "Okay."

"Good, now follow my lead, act naturally."

They do exactly as Roger said, although Freddie is swimming in his own sweat underneath the weight of the furcoat and his sins. He copies Roger in grabbing some of the clothes they see, hold it up to the light or feel the texture, before putting it back and making a face. 

Roger is a bad actor, and a little obvious in his looking around, but the person behind the register desk doesn't know Roger and cannot tell that he is faking his whole physical demeanour, even the way he walks is different. 

Eventually, after they have gone all around the store and seen every corner of it, Roger finally puts Freddie out of his misery and drags him outside

Freddie cannot breathe.

He is too busy cackling to inhale any oxygen. Roger is not doing any better.

He brings Freddie as far as one block away before they both break down into a fit of giggles. Freddie is sweating, gasping for air and holding onto Roger's shoulders for dear life. People are looking, but they don't care at all, this is New York after all. He is shaking, but he feels good, a rush of naughtiness and victory overcomes him and he laughs harder. 

"I hated every second of that." He lies, because he didn't. He is all hot and flustered now, leaning heavily onto Roger to stay upright. "That was— Fuck! I'm having a bloody heart attack."

Roger is still smiling like the sun has kissed him when he unzips Freddie's coat to lay his palm flat over Freddie's chest. 

Suddenly Freddie's breath is caught in his throat and laughing is no longer a problem. He pauses to look at Roger, astonished by their sudden closeness. 

Roger himself is still bubbling with laughter and keeps his hand still where it rests comfortably over Freddie's heart. "It's not slowing down." He comments in a husky tone. 

Freddie cannot deal with his feelings today, not after today. 

He throws the leather dress at Roger's face, smiling in victory when Roger sputters and stumbles backwards into the brick wall.

* * *

  
  
The performance is Freddie’s greatest success yet.

People are going wild at their campy take on the BDSM category. 

Freddie is dressed in leather shorts, black suspenders, sunglasses and police cap fitted over his curly hair. 

Roger on the other hand, is dressed in the strappy leather bodysuit they had mopped from the store. It clings to his body tight and painfully to the point that tiny red lines would remain on Roger’s skin long after the performance. 

They both wear matching black leather boots. 

The biggest difference is that Freddie is the policeman and Roger is the criminal, who’s hands are tied together by real clattering handcuffs.

Roger holds his cuffed hands out with an exaggerated silly pout while Freddie parades him around the room, tugging him about by the chain of the handcuffs. The handcuffs had been a gift from Paris, Roger’s house mother, who is watching the performance with raw pride in her eyes. 

Freddie’s eyes linger on her as he walks in long circles around the dance floor to show his captive off to everyone in attendance.

He tries to walk stiff and strongly, with his chin held high and his shoulders squared up.

He can’t remember ever feeling this empowered in his life. 

The echoes of people’s cheers and their burning gazes focused on Freddie’s pronounced crotch in the leather shorts will live vividly in his memory for decades to come. The feeling of Roger’s warm body pressing up against him, growing more trusting snd sluggish as their performance goes on, until there’s a hazy trusting look in his eyes and drool dribbling from the ball gag to his chin.

Freddie turns around and pauses his stride around the room to lift Roger’s chin with one finger and thumb the saliva away. 

The crowd erupts into applause. Roger blinks up at him heavily and trusts Freddie to take him around the room one last time.

* * *

  
  
"You're very pretty, Freddie." 

Roger has this tone he uses when he speaks to Freddie that he only reserves for him. Even when he speaks to Trevor, who's his 'not-boyfriend-fuck-buddy-roommate', Roger sounds a lot less affectionate. 

It is likely that Roger pities him and treats him like a stray cat more than anything.

Freddie tells himself not to look into it too much. He's sure Roger sometimes gets ready for the balls with his other friends sometimes. Lends them his clothes and makeup. He must help people find a home all the time. And teaches them how to shoplift lingerie. Walks balls with them. Give them a bag of groceries when he sees they're tired of vegan food. 

He forces himself to think of Roger as a friend and to diminish how his heartstrings are tugged at every moment their eyes meet. 

It is likely his affection is one sided and Roger's fondness is simply friendly. 

He shuts his eyes when the feelings become overwhelming and his skin prickles. In that moment he takes a pause and deep breath to consider what their relationship might look like from Rogers perspective. Even when he concentrates really hard on slowing down his heartbeat, every moment they have had together was connected by electricity. Freddie cannot imagine a point of view where this connection isn't present. 

One sided? Perhaps not.

"Earth to Freddie?"

Freddie blinks rapidly until his eyes refocus on Rogers smile. His face is unusually close to his and Freddie relishes in being able to study every inch of Rogers skin. Every detailed speck in his eyes and the small birthmark beneath his ear. 

"Sorry, got lost it thought." He whispers. They're being watched by Trevor, who's cooking up a dinner in the kitchen. Freddie can feel his eyes bore into his neck. He hides his discomfort. He's in their apartment after all. "What did you say?"

The corner of Rogers lip quirks up high and the teasing glint returns to the blue of his eyes. 

"You just want to hear me call you beautiful twice don't you?" 

Freddie face flushes hot under the service. He hopes Roger can tell, but from his cackling that follows Freddie has betrayed himself. 

Mercifully, Roger lowers his gaze and continues painting Freddie's nails for him. He holds his hand the way a gentleman would caress a girls' hand before kissing her knuckles. The touch is both stable and tender. 

Roger's hands are surprisingly soft and Freddie's palms grow clammy after being held by Roger for such a long period.

"You barely need any makeup at all with how beautiful you already are."

"God Roger keep your pants on!" Trevor calls out from the kitchen. Freddie jumps at the sudden interruption, but Roger chuckles and wraps an arm around Freddie's neck to smoosh his cheek loudly for show. 

Freddie's face certainly burns red now. But it doesn't matter. Roger plasters a couple layers of foundation over his cheeks and preps him for the ball without further comments from Trevor until the sizzling of the pans on the stove ends and he calls them up to grab a plate.

Roger doesn't perform in every show these days, according to Trevor he never used to miss a show. These days he's more tired. Freddie heard one of their friends had died. He hadn't dared to ask who or how. He can guess why Roger's moods are gloomy and the crowds at the balls grow thinner. 

_Another_ friend has died. 

Freddie doesn't know how to bring it up or make Roger feel better. Good enough to enjoy walking a ball again, when Freddie had suggested he'd walk, Roger just shook his head.

But he seems satisfied looking after Freddie instead. 

They have their dinner on the floor and Roger finishes with Freddie's hair and makeup afterwards. Although Trevor needs to step in to perfect Freddie's eyeliner. 

It becomes somewhat of a routine. 

Sometimes Roger and Freddie perform together, sometimes Roger decides to stick one out or do another of his famous solos. Sometimes Roger wants the floor for himself. Freddie can't resent that. He feels the same. 

Roger has been looking much too tired lately, for his own good, he takes breaks from the limelight. 

To contrary, Freddie has become addicted to the rush and cannot imagine stopping now. 

The balls, the heat of the spotlight and Rogers tender hands on his face are alm that fills Freddie's lungs with air and his body out of bed. 

It is the only thing that drags him through the day. Keeps him from thinking about the open wound across his heart where his families rejection still hemorrhages happiness from his self-being. He's painfully aware of everything he's lost, even when he has gained a lot in his new familiarized world. His family's rejection still hurts and left a gaping hole in himself that's nothing but pitch black void. 

Roger in all of this has subsequently become is at the centre of his world, which is dangerous, but all too exciting. 

Sometimes Roger comes by his job during the day to see how Freddie is getting on. It's heartwarming to see Roger swaggering through those glass doors, looking both smug and delighted to see Freddie behind the counter. "Mr Taylor." Freddie always greets him when the store is empty. The acknowledging grin is followed by a flirtatious, "Oh Mrs Mercury, what a surprise." Although Freddie makes him he promise not to steal anything while he's on duty. Roger lingers around until Freddie's lunch break. They usually go out and get something together, just the two of them. 

It's the best part of his day, almost as good as the balls. Although the balls would still be enjoyable without Roger. Lunch wouldn't be.

Freddie doesn't tell Brian anything about the other world he lives in, he isn't sure how Brian would react and Freddie can't afford to find a new flatmate now, especially one that's been as unassuming as Brian. Freddie comes home at odd hours almost every day, makeup still smeared across his face. At least Brian has the decency to shut up about it if he notices at all. 

It all becomes a routine to hide. The secrecy and unspoken, it reminds him of his old home. A sick part of him is comforted by it.

* * *

  
  
Before he knows it, months have passed. 

He finds himself where he always finds himself when he has a minute to spare: with Roger. 

Today there's no balls, just clubs, but nobody had been in the mood to go. Another friend has passed and the funeral had been bleak. The conservative family hadn't allowed any of his friends to come. So Roger and some others had their own private wake outside at the park until the rain had broken it up. 

Trevor had homework to do afterwards and Roger consequentially was coming down with a cold. Freddie had nowhere better to be than with him. 

Trevor makes a mean soup Freddie thinks grumpily while licking into his bowl as spiteful as one could lick. That's one thing Trevor has over him, aside from sharing a bed with Roger, his tremendous cooking skills. 

"I think I'm not gonna make it to midnight." Roger can barely finish his sentence before yawning loud and wide. 

His nose is flushed red and his baggy eyes are moist with tears. Freddie think begrudgingly that Roger is indeed coming down with something nasty. They have a ball next Friday. He hopes he'll feel better before that.

Before Roger can finish yawning, Trevor gets up from the couch and plucks Rogers soup bowl out of his hands. 

"I'll take that. Fred?" Freddie hands his bowl over too with as much of a smile as he can muster. "Thanks."

He is too occupied looking back at Roger, who curls his knees up to his chest, shivering as if he were cold in the already overheated apartment. Freddie himself is burning up, although he always is in Rogers presence. 

When Trevor is busy cleaning in the kitchen with his back turned to them, Freddie wrangles himself out of his old University hoodie and without waiting for permission, pulls it down over Roger's head.

"What are you doing?" Roger murmurs, already half asleep as he speaks. He offers little assistance other than lifting his hands enough to bunch through the sleeves. Freddie smooths his hand down Rogers back as soon as the hoodie is on, feeling the ribbles of his spine when he strokes the cold away.

"Getting you warmed up." He answers in an equally quiet voice that at least manages to make Roger smile, even when its a fleeting one. 

Roger shuts his eyes and instead of sitting back in his previous spot, Roger slumps forward and lowers himself into Freddie's lap, cuddling his face into Freddie's thigh and forces Freddie to sit still by wrapping an arm around his waist. _Oh God._

Freddie at first isn't sure what to do with his hands. He keeps them close to his chest for a moment, before realizing he is resembling a chicken.

Then he lowers his hands to lay flat on the couch. The spot that Roger had just occupied is still warm. Freddie fights the heat that rises to his face.

Eventually, when the stiff position becomes irritating and he is mentally kicking himself for not seizing the opportunity as it's presented. That's the least he could have learned from being around Roger.

Right, Roger.

He is a comfortable weight in Freddie's lap. He looks down at him and his nervousness smooths out when he sees that Roger's eyes have already shut and his lips are slightly parted to breathe with the stuffy nose.

Freddie's fingers instinctively curl around Roger's neck and the other one pushes a stray strand of hair behind the curve of his ear to get a better look at him. 

Even when he is experiencing the cold from hell, Roger is good looking. Sickly pale and purple bruises under his eyes? Freddie will take it, gladly. Roger's eyelids flutter when he tips between the balance of asleep and awake. His fingers flex experimentally and he curls his legs closer to his chest. For a moment Freddie is afraid he will wake up again, too soon and retreat back to his own corner of the couch. Or worse, seek out Trevor. 

He almost takes his hands away before he could be caught, although he doubts Roger would mind. He doesn't feel like being teased in front of Trevor. Relief washes over Freddie when Roger manages to settle down, of course with a little encouragement from Freddie's hands rubbing the back of his neck.

When his breath evens out again, Freddie allows himself to slump into the back of the couch, while he continues to watch over his sleeping friend. He feels a lot lighter, in this moment, despite the added weight to his lap. 

It's special moments like this when Freddie fears his fondness for Roger would extend to the point the chest pain would become unbearable. 

He is surrounded by Roger, his home, his things, his smell, his presence. It feels like the highest of all privileges. Freddie shuts his eyes and relishes in all of it. He allows himself to be present and remember every detail. The texture of Roger's hair between his fingertips. The smell of made-from-scratch tomato soup and the pattern of Roger's wheezing breaths. 

"He always gets sick around this time of year."

Freddie opens his eyes to look at Trevor. The tall man is standing next to the couch, holding two beers, one slightly tipped towards Freddie.

He takes it, but only because it's New Years. He doesn't like to drink if Roger isn't drinking too.

Freddie has to stop playing with Roger's hair to tip the beer bottle to his lips, but the hand on his neck remains. He strokes his knuckles over the smooth flawless skin, gravely noting how warm he is. 

Trevor sits down on the spare armchair that's usually reserved for Freddie. Because when he is in their apartment, Roger is part of Trevor's domain. He shares the couch with Trevor and only slips down beside Freddie when it is time to do their makeup. 

The other man is drinking his beer in a much faster pace than Freddie, seemingly agitated, worried and tense. 

He keeps an eye out on his watch to check the time.

Freddie doesn't mind silences, but he gets the sense Trevor does. Roger would appreciate it if Freddie tried. "Almost midnight?"

"Another ten minutes. He couldn't hold out longer, huh." 

"Think he's got a temperature." Freddie confesses grimly. Causing Trevor's concerned frown to deepen. "He'll be fine though, right?"

"Of course he will be, don't worry about that." Trevor drags his eyes from Roger's sleeping form and forces a smile for Freddie, it comes across a bit condescending, he thinks Freddie is adorable, fretting over something like that. "Roger's just a real brat when he gets sick— more bratty than usual that is. He'll be okay."

"I don't mind." Freddie says a tad too fast. Edging on sounding irritated. 

Trevor hears the defensive edge to Freddie's tone and his eyes soften instantly.

Freddie wills himself not too look away from those charming eyes. He blindly continues to caress the nape of Roger's neck. "If he gets sick, I'll help look after him."

"I'm sure you will."

Trevor takes another swig of his beer. Freddie mimics him, although his heartbeat is picking up when he cannot interpret the tone of his voice. Something about tonight is odd. This may be the first time Roger has ever been absent during a conversation between Freddie and Trevor. 

The drinks don't do anything to lighten the mood or break Freddie's nerves. 

The longer the silence stretches on Freddie notices a pinched look fixing on Trevor's silken face.

If he did something wrong, and with the increasing suspicion that he did, Freddie sure doesn't want to face Trevors havoc alone. He silently wills Roger to wake up and crack a joke about the awkward silence. He even contemplated giving his neck a little pinch, but knows that would be a cruel thing to do considering how tired Roger had been.

Trevor lowers his bottle when he is nearly finished with it and points at Freddie in the most non-threatening way a man can point at another man with a shared love interest. 

"You know, I like you, Freddie."

Freddie frowns. Instantly suspicious. 

"Let me elaborate," Trevor snorts. "You're sweet and funny, which are good things. Roger likes funny people, although most aren't as sweet as you are."

"Thank you. I don't know—" 

"But Freddie, I worry that you don't have what it takes."

All color drains from his Freddie's face and his hands pause mid stroke. He looks at Trevor, who is unsurprised by his reaction. 

"For what?"

"To live like this, Freddie. Can you defend this lifestyle? Can you protect Roger when you need to. Or yourself even." Trevor puts his bottle down on the floor before leaning back in the armchair. Looking increasingly more thoughtful and wretched. "Can you?"

Freddie is not sure how to answer that. He is like an open book to these people, Trevor can tell on his hesitation before Freddie can and sighs. 

"This is one rough fucking world, Freddie. And I care a lot about him and believe it or not, I care about you too. Will you be able to defend yourself so you don't have to run every time shit gets too difficult?"

How is any of this your business? "I ran from my parents home because they called me filthy. He said-- He said I was foul."

"What if I say it?" Trevor provokes. "What if I say that us being homosexuals is filthy and wrong. How you are sitting on the couch there with Roger, that's wrong. What will you say to me?"

Freddie swallows. It feels as though the room has become abruptly muggy. 

"This is your house." He pauses and gives Roger's neck a slight squeeze. "What would you expect me to do?"

"Defend yourself. More precisely, I want you to defend Roger."

"I cannot do anything when—" 

"You live two separate life's, Freddie. Your straight life and your gay life." His tone becomes clipped and uncharacteristically dissaporving. "You can't expect Roger to live like that."

"Like what?" He pipes out. 

"Have you ever held his hand in public? Do you ever let him come over to your place? Does your flatmate know you're gay, Fred?" Trevor leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "Does Brian know?"

Hot shame washes over Freddie. He shakes his head stiffly, no, Brian doesn't know. 

"You're new, you're scared and that's entirely fine and valid, but that's not what I want for Roger. He shouldn't have to hide, because _you_ are afraid."

"I don't understand." Freddie swallows thickly. His throat is dry as sandpaper. "What is this about? It's not like we are—"

Freddie is stunned into silence when a thundering round of gunshots are fired right outside the apartment complex. 

All the windows are shut, but the echoes racket through the house nevertheless. Every hair on Freddie's body stands upright in shock. His first instinct is to get up and find coverage. He's never heard that sound in real life before. Only ever on television. He realizes that every movie he has ever seen has underestimated the harsh claps of gunfire. 

He is glad when Trevor shoots up from the couch and works himself around the coffee table to wedge himself between Freddie and the armrest.

Freddie can't protest against the two arms that wrap around his shoulders and curl him against Trevor's chest. He inhales sharply, rapidly, on the verge of tears. The shots don't stop for a long time. There is shouting in between that echoes through the empty streets. He rests his head on Trevor's sternum, while holding onto the back of Roger's neck. He hopes Trevor doesn't mistake his stiffness for ungratefulness. 

If he thinks lesser of Freddie, he doesn't show it.

He tightens the arm around Freddie until Freddie feels comfortable to snake an arm around his waist too and shut his eyes. 

When the controllable shivers set in he attempts to force his body to remain still, even when it goes against every fibre of his being. He clenches his jaw when another round of shots are fired. Trevor has yet to look away, he is looking down at Freddie intently, while Freddie squeezes his eyes shut at every abrupt noise.

Sweat has broken out on his forehead and his hands are shaking. He'll ask Roger and Trevor if he can sleep here tonight. The thought of going outside at nighttime becomes unthinkable. 

"I don't have to go, right?"

His words are spoken so softly, so quietly that Freddie fears Trevor won't pick up on them, but to his utter relief, he does. Long slender fingers begin to stroke through his hair and Freddie squeezes his eyes shut. He wishes he was out of it like Roger, oblivious to the turmoil of the world. 

"No. You don't." Trevor whispers, the words nearly drowned out by the commotion outside. "You can stay." 

None of them notices when the clock passes midnight. Roger scolds them for this two hours later when he wakes up. 

"Is it because they don't celebrate New Year in your culture?" Roger asks bluntly when Freddie rolls his eyes at how offended he is at not being alerted at the change of the year. 

He had stumbled out of his and Trevors bedroom with wild eyes and his hair sticking out in every direction, before flopping down on the bean bag next to Freddie with a pout. Trevor was still asleep, apparently, he had carried Roger to the bedroom hours ago and given Freddie a blanket to sleep out on the couch. He was watching tv instead when sleep wouldn't overtake him. 

Roger had joined him on the floor, although he was bleary eyed and drowsy.

"New Year is important for some cultures, you know. And for the individuals who are part of said culture." 

Freddie rolls his eyed again. This time all the way back into his skull. "We have been in America long enough to—" 

He doesn't expect Roger to lean in and shush him with a hard kiss on the lips.

His mouth is perfectly soft against Freddie's, who's lips go slack in surprise. He wants nothing more than to react. He wants to open his lips are push his tongue pasts Roger's and show him how much he wants this.

Freddie is so stunned that he cannot even chase after the sweetness of Roger's lips when he pulls back from the kiss far too soon. 

All he can do is reopen his eyes and blink. 

Roger chuckles heartily at his dazed expression. He smooths his hand down Freddie's arm, before turning flipping back into the beanbag and uses Freddie's shoulder as his personal pillow.

Freddie cannot concentrate on the television anymore when his lips tingle hours long after the kiss.

* * *

  
  
Freddie should have been there.

The moment he hears the phone ring down the hall at ten to two a.m. he knows something went wrong. 

A frantic call from Roger rushes Freddie out of his apartment without offering any sort of explanation to Brian, who'd just come stumbling out of his bedroom with a sleepy frown. Freddie only bothers with his jacket and shoes. He skips two steps at the time he checks his pockets for his wallet and keys. 

He travels across the city on the subway and runs the rest of the way with the directions Roger had given over the phone.

Freddie's legs are burning and he's wheezing by the time he finds Roger outside the police station, leaning against the dirty brick wall with tear-filled eyes and a hatred sharpness to his jaw. 

There had been a massive protest against the governments passive approach against the AIDS-crisis. Yesterday morning, the New York Times had announced that the national death toll had reached 40.000 and shown no sign of decline. 

Trevor was the first who heard of the demonstration planned in resistance to Reagans incompetence and silence during the epidemic. 

He told Roger. Roger told Freddie. 

Roger had asked him to come, repeatedly, trying to encourage Freddie to get involved with the community in ways outside of the balls, but Freddie had opted instead to lie. He said he'd would be tired from working all day. Truth be told, he was too scared.

Every news article concerning the AIDS-crisis protests had made sure to note that numerous protestors that got arrested during the occasions. 

At the second Wall Street action a few days ago, over a hundred people got dragged into police vans and disappeared into jails waiting for someone to bail them out. Many of them were people who had never contemplated civil disobedience before. First offenses for the majority. Freddie can tell people are angry, even if the only gay people he knows in this country are Trevor and Roger, their anger is touchable when in close proximity. Rage boils under their skin. They had wanted nothing more than to take to the street with provocative slogans on their shirts and to hold hands with strangers in solidarity against the terrible disease, while Freddie had been scared. 

_Trevor is in jail._

"Hi."

Roger looks up when Freddie finally approaches him. He looks rough, not fully recovered from his wretched cold, he shivers in the New York winter with his arms crossed underneath his thin t-shirt. His blue eyes well up with tears when their gazes meet and Roger quickly pushes his arms through the sleeve holes to jump into Freddie's arms. 

Freddie allows Roger to press his body against him. He feels the cold on Roger's skin and waits patiently for his warmth to transfer over, he wraps his arms around Roger's waist. He keeps him steady when for the first time Roger needs him. 

"Jesus. Freddie." He runs his cold nose against the soft side of Freddie's neck. He squeezes Freddie tight and Freddie can only wrap Roger against him to shield him from the harsh weather. "I— _fuck_. They just picked him out."

"What?"

"There were hundreds of us and they," Freddie has never seen Roger cry. Not even once, but now he is sniffling and blinking tears away rapidly. Freddie feels the fluttering of eyelashes on his neck. "They plucked him out of the crowd. I tried to pull him into the masses, but they took him and some others back to the station. They're holding him on bond."

Freddie forces Roger to pull back to take a hard look at him. "How much is it?"

"A lot." Roger wipes at his face when another flash of angry tears fall. "He can't spend the night in there, Freddie."

"Do you have it?" Freddie asks in a plain tone. "The money?"

"No. But I've got an idea that might work."

Freddie shrugs his coat off on their way to Roger's apartment. It's a short ten-minute walk from the station and the streets are mostly empty, but Freddie doesn't trust this neighbourhood this time of night. Especially not with Roger wearing a t-shirt with red block-letters dripping paint down the end that says ' **STOP AIDS NOT GAYS** '. 

It is unclear to Freddie what exactly the plan is, but at this point he is too afraid to ask. 

Roger had been pissed off before the protest, fiery and tired of the mistreatment, now the fight has gone lost in his gaze. He just looks defeated in the slump on his shoulders and the bags under his eyes.

They reach the apartment without being spotted by anyone dangerous, but mostly because Freddie has learned how to walk in the shadows of the street lights. Roger bolts straight up the stairs to his and Trevors apartment.

His fingers shake too much to insert the key into the hole. 

After a frustrated kick against the door and a loud "Fuck!" that must alert at least three of his neighbours, Freddie pries the keys out of Roger's hands and unlocks it for him. 

He brushes past Freddie with a passive "Thanks." Although doesn't take a minute to pause and take a look around the room the way Freddie always does.

Roger disappears straight into the bedroom and Freddie stands frozen in the doorway, unsure if he should follow him or not. 

Before he can make up his mind, Roger returns with in his hands a shimmering diamond necklace. His prestigious, real diamonds that are part of his Marilyn Monroe set. Roger looks a little calmer now, with the heavy jewellery in his hands. He shows his open palm to Freddie with a wry little smile. "This will do, don't you think?"

"The police take diamond for bail now?" Freddie asks doubtfully.

Roger grabs himself a coat off the hook next to the door. It must be one of Trevors, because he swims in it. He stuffs the necklace into his pocket before buttoning the coat up to his chin and returns Freddie his own coat. 

"No, they won't." Roger grabs Freddie by the arm as soon as they're both dressed up. This is natural, Freddie relaxes. He is led out of the apartment before the warmth inside can seep into his bones. "We are going to a pawn shop."

"A what now?"

Apparently, some pawnshops are open 24 hours a day, seven days a week. 

Freddie has never been to one before, but he is certain that only the shadiest people in the whole of New York need to go to a pawn shop at this hour of the day. 

The only people who would need fast money at 2 a.m. on a Thursday evening are addicts and people who need to bail their friends out of jail. 

Freddie stays a safe distance away from Roger to make sure they aren't giving anyone the wrong idea. Or the right idea. Whatever. He knows they desperately need the money without drawing unwanted attention from the scary onlookers. 

When it is their turn in line, Roger leans heavily on the counter, a lovely ploy to charm the elderly man behind the cash register. 

Freddie would have fallen for it, but the shop owner seems hardly convinced by the antics. _Not gay then, damnit._

Roger slips the necklace out of his pocket and discreetly puts it out on the counter. He spares another smile to the man, but it bristles when the shop owner frowns and reaches for his loupe to examine the diamonds in his hand. 

Freddie holds his breath. 

These are the longest forty seconds of Freddie's life and he wants nothing more than to reach out and take Rogers hand in his for comfort. 

The shop owner finally lowers the glasses as well as the necklace. He puts his palm on the counter and shrugs with one shoulder. 

"I can give you 2000 USD for that."

Roger's face slackens in surprise. "That's bullshit."

"I could also call the police if you'd rather have that." He says at once and points with his thumb over his shoulder where Freddie guesses he's got a telephone. He gives the necklace a dirty look. "I know these were stolen." 

That settles it.

Roger shuts his eyes and grumbles low in his throat so only Freddie can hear it. 

When he doesn't answer, Freddie does, sounding more confident than he felt. "We'll take it, thank you." 

They leave the pawnshop without the necklace and only half the money needed for Trevor's bail. Nevertheless, Roger seems to be leading them back to the station with a sombre, distant look in his misty eyes.

Freddie trails after him like a lost puppy, noting how tired his legs are and how heavy his eyelids feel. He knows he will be nowhere near as tired as Roger, which is the only thing that keeps him from complaining about it out loud. 

"What now?"

"Fuck this." Roger pulls Freddie forward by his arm. Both determined and sad. "I'm fucking exhausted. I don't know what else to do."

Roger marches them over to the first available phone booth they come across. Freddie knows that Roger has a lot of friends, but none of whom seemed particularly rich. Or rich enough to spare over 2000 dollars on such a short notice. 

He watches Roger lock himself into the phone booth, dialling a number by memory and waiting for the line to connect while rubbing his forehead in frustration. 

It takes a long minute before anyone seems to pick up from the other end, but when they do, Roger doesn't lighten up.

"Hello? Am I speaking to Patricia? Yes. No, actually, I was calling about him. Trevor is in jail, being held on bond now."

Freddie can only hear one side of the conversation, but the pinched look on Roger's face tells him enough. Trevors family mean no good. 

After that things move surprisingly fast. Scarily fast. 

Trevors family, who is currently living somewhere down in the deep south, immediately opts to stop funding the rent to his and Rogers apartment. They shuffle the money around to pay for the remaining amount of the bail, but only with the promise that Trevor would come back home with them and finish his school faw away from New York ruckus, AIDS protests and Roger. 

Things move fast.

The next day, Freddie is with them in the apartment when Roger is forced to pack only one suitcase before he is forced to leave under the strict supervision of Trevor's uncle who had taken the first plane to JFK airport to escort Trevor back to Mississippi without a fuss. It's strange to witness both Roger and Trevor looking extremely defeated, sharing longing looks with each other whenever the uncle wasn't looking, although he almost always was. Preventing them from saying what they actually wanted.

Freddie makes sure to help the uncle bring Trevor's bags downstairs and once he is down in the cold, he silently offers the uncle a cigarette. Initiating a break from the heavy lifting.

"Thanks kid."

"No problem." Freddie lights up his own cigarette and tips his chin up to see Roger standing in the window, looking down at him with a strange look on his face. Freddie winks. Roger and Trevor were guaranteed by his homophobic family to spend no more time alone together, not even for a short moment. Not even to say goodbye. 

Roger realizes quickly what Freddie had done and his eyes widen before turning around to grasp Trevor by the shirt.

Freddie really shouldn't be looking. It is the most intimate exchange he has seen between two human beings. He can only see Roger's back now where he is being pressed against the window, but he can see Trevor's cheeks glistening with tears. Their lips meet in a soft kiss that is nothing more but the tender pressing of one mouth against another. When they pull back a minute later they don't go in for another one. 

Roger wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand. Trevor offers a final words of encouragement, but his eyes are dead.

* * *

  
  
Freddie carries Roger's suitcase up the four flights of stairs for him. "C'mon." He guides Roger through the door with a hand on his lower back. Roger lets himself be pulled around with a bleak mask over his face. 

Freddie is glad to find Brian had already gone to work when they enter the empty living room. He shuts the door behind them and rolls Rogers suitcase over to his bedroom door. 

Roger remains stiff in the middle of the room, with his arms wrapped around himself. 

He looks frail and thin in Trevors already oversized coat. His hair is a colossal mess and his skin is washed out pale. When their eyes meet, Roger slowly lifts his hands to unbutton the coat one button the time. Every muscle flexes in slow motion under the weight of their combined exhaustion. Freddie should have looked away when Roger had begun shrugging the coat off his shoulders, but he always struggles to tear his eyes away from him. 

"I—I didn't see those before."

Roger lifts his drowsy eyes to watch Freddie close the distance between them. Freddie boldly picks up Roger's wrist to lift his arm closer to his face for inspection. His fingertips ghost over the cold skin purple and blue from broken blood vessels under the fine surface. 

"Did this happen during the protest?" Freddie is whispering, sounding hesitant of the sound of his own voice. 

Roger offers a stiff nod. 

"God." Freddie swallows thickly while he turns Roger's wrist over to see the rest of his arm. He is covered in bruises, cloaked in pain. "You should lay down. I'll make you some tea and get some arnica ointment for the bruises."

He still has a tender hold on Roger's wrist as he drags him into his own bedroom. Had this been any other day, Freddie's blood would be pumping at the prospect of showing Roger to his room for the first time.

But none of that comes to mind now. Roger easily complies with being pushed forward and into the warmth of Freddie's space where he had unintentionally kept the heater on all night.

Roger flops onto the mattress and kicks his shoes onto the floor before curling his legs to his chest. Freddie sees him shut his eyes before rolling underneath the duvet in one smooth movement. 

"Smells like you." He comments after a beat of silence.

"Good or bad?" Freddie asks.

Roger peaks out from underneath the blankets with that little twinkle returned to his eyes. "Good of course." A thought later, Roger's eyes widen and he lifts himself up to his elbows. 

It is quite amusing how fast Roger has made himself comfortable in Freddie's bed, while it had taken Freddie weeks before he got his first full nights sleep in his new bedroom. 

He is still slumped against the doorpost, feeling his skin drag on his tight facial muscles. "What's wrong?"

"Don't you have to go to work?" Roger asks and they cast a look at the clock above the bed. Roger has to tip his head up to look at it upside down. It won't be any use without his glasses anyway.

It's fives minutes to nine a.m. Freddie has not slept at all last night and he has an eight-hour shift to look forward to.

He must have pulled a face, because Roger breaks out in a smile.

"Can you afford to lose the job?"

"No." Freddie rubs the sleep out of his eyes, but they somehow come back more blurry. "No I can't."

"Okay."

Freddie watches Roger climb out of bed only half a minute after making himself comfortable. He brushes past Freddie into the living room, towards the kitchen. He has never been inside Freddie's apartment long enough to get a drink, but somehow manages to find all the right cupboards and pushes the right buttons to get the coffee maker going without error. 

He gives Freddie a clever look over his shoulder, all too smug at his own ability to settle in fast. 

"I'm brewing your coffee and breakfast to go, you wash up, put on some clothes and meet me here in five. Store opens at ten right?"

Freddie blinks. "Yes?"

"Good. Off you go. C'mon." Freddie is effectively shooed out of his own kitchen and into the bathroom. 

He makes quick work to get out of his sweat-soaked clothes and run a cold washcloth over his body to get rid of any odours. He puts on the clothes the store provided for him, their own brand for advertisement, and buttons up his blouse while brushing his teeth. He keeps himself from looking in the mirror. He already knows he looks like shit.

"Freddie!" Roger calls a few moments later when Freddie is still spitting the foaming toothpaste out of his mouth.

"I'm coming!" 

Freddie finishes washing his face, cupping water in his hand and splashing himself clean with ice cold water. His palms brush the coarse stubble that appeared overnight.

With no time to shave, Freddie dashes out of the bathroom and nearly stumbles into Roger, who is waiting for him right outside the door with a thermos and tinfoil wrapped sandwich. He is smiling, a real exhausted smile that Freddie can appreciate to the fullest deepest core of his being. He wants nothing more than to wrap his arms around Roger and stay right where they are. 

But before he can settle in the spot, Roger thrusts the items into his hands and pushes Freddie towards the front door, where his jacket and shoes are already waiting for him.

"Go, go Freddie. Christ you're slow! Go!" 

Wet lips press against his cheek, leaving Freddie's simmering with the memory of the soft imprint for the rest of the day. 

He returns home a little over nine hours later, to find Roger in one of Freddie's shirts, curled up on the couch next to Brian watching the news with discarded bowls perched on the coffee table. 

Freddie closes the door with a silent click that makes the two figures sit up.

"Hey Fred."

"Honey, you're home." Roger uncurls his arms in lazy leisure and grins up at him. "I made Brian a vegetarian pasta and we might be a couple now." 

Freddie lets the comment slide and focused his attention on Brian instead. 

"Brian, I'm sorry. I didn't know what would happen last night. I hope you don't mind. Roger is an excellent person to have around." He's trying to come up with the right thing to say just as Brian waves him off with an easy smile. 

"Roger told me what happened." He interrupts easily and wraps an arm around Rogers' shoulder. "I don't mind having someone else around. He's an o-kay cook. Only burned the bottom bits in the pan." 

"Thank God I ate on the subway." Freddie smirks. 

Roger makes a little head gesture towards the bedroom. Followed by a wink.

Freddie holds back a smile and forms an excuse on his lips while taking off his coat and shoes. "Awfully long day. Think I'm headed for bed."

"Oh! Right of course." Brian says. "I'm sure I've got a spare bedding that'll fit the couch and I can fuck off to my room if you need to lay down Rog—"

"I won't be taking the couch, thanks though Bri." 

Roger unhooks himself from Brians arm, ducks away from underneath and crosses the room to Freddie. Freddie doesn't look back at his flatmate when Roger pulls him into his bedroom, but he can feel his eyes burning in the back of his head. 

For the next week there is a silent pact fallen over the apartment. 

Brian doesn't say anything when Roger follows Freddie into his bedroom every night, rather than taking the couch Brian had graciously offered. And Roger makes three poorly made meals for them every day, to show his gratitude. Freddie feels bad about Trevor, but he makes peace with the new arrangement soon enough.

* * *

  
  
"Do you ever wish you weren't like this?" 

Roger rolls over so he is half plastered on top of Freddie. His face is entirely too close to Freddie's and his stupidly attractive drowsy eyes drop to Freddie's lips, before bouncing up with a little smirk. He rubs his bare foot up and down Freddie's calf, his hand comes up to rest on Freddie's chest, where his V neck leaves his chest exposed for Roger to draw lazy patterns with the tips of his fingers. Freddie almost forgets the question that had caused Roger to shut his book without a second thought. When they are comfortably situated, Freddie's body rapidly heating up and Roger appearing more self-satisfied by the minute. 

"Like what?" 

Freddie gulps. Roger's eyes fixate on his Adams apple. 

"Gay." He elaborates. 

Roger's face contorts uncomfortably like he's had something sour to eat. His fingers stop moving. The epitome of a question mark in the form of a facial expression. 

Freddie's mouth has gone dry. There are no right words to express what he wants to say. He feels the letters scrape past his throat on the way out, knowing they're poor by nature. But he can't help the way his mind has been wandering down this path at least twice a day, sometimes more, when the drag of his bones becomes too much at work and he hasn't been able to afford any luxuries since leaving home. He hasn't bought any clothes, is running low on hygiene products, he hasn't seen a movie or bought a record in months and he aches for a spa day. 

He spits it out when the silence stretches on a beat too long and Roger's impatience becomes touchable. 

"If I wasn't gay," Freddie starts uncertainly. Not exactly able to look Roger in the eye. "I'd be at home right now, where there's central heating, eating my mother's cooking. I wouldn't have to choose between shampoo and mouthwash." 

"But I wouldn't be there." Roger says almost immediately. 

Freddie doesn't want to look at the expression on his face. He offended him, he must have, after Roger had opened his arms wide to Freddie and introduced him to the purest most precious parts of the community. The balls are the only thing that had kept Freddie from crumbling into his own body and decaying into ash. He wanted nothing more than to be gone in the hours between leaving his parental home and meeting Roger. 

Roger suddenly reaches around himself and grabs a hold of Freddie's arm to sling it over Roger's back. 

The gesture stuns Freddie into looking down at him and receiving the sly smile he hadn't expected to be on Roger's face after confession something so awful. So wrong.

"Why do I hate myself, Roger?" Freddie whispers. They are in such close proximity he is sure Roger could hear the single exhale of words. 

He instinctively tightens his arm around Roger when the blond tries to sit upright and pushes his hair out of his face get a better look at Freddie. He doesn't want Roger to go, he can't imagine Roger has nowhere else to go with all the friends he's got. John would be sure to find him someone to live with within the hour. He could go after Trevor in the South. 

Freddie doesn't even understand why Roger stayed as long as he did.

"Freddie." He sits upright, thighs spread on either side of Freddie's hips and his hands perched on Freddie's shoulders. "I love you. I love you even when you don't love yourself. I am capable of loving you, so you are capable of loving you too. Because one day you will wake up and the weight of society's ridiculous norms won't be as heavy. One day the charge behind the file things they said about you or people like you will be unimportant. It won't stay this bad. You won't feel like this forever, because one day you will love yourself more than the world could ever hate you. Because I love you more than the world could ever hate us."

The intense fire that blazes behind Roger's iris melts the cold that frosted itself around Freddie's heart.

It isn't suddenly okay. His fathers' words are not plucked out of his memory or hurt any less, but the certainty, upmost faith in the blue of Roger's eyes makes Freddie believe that perhaps one day indeed, it won't hurt the way it did yesterday. 

Before he can find his voice and find an adequate response that isn't gibberish, Roger leans down and tenderly teases his nose down the side of Freddie's. 

The skin is particularly sensitive there and he breathes heavily through the gap between his lips when Roger lets his lips ghost over Freddie's mouth. 

His heart races when Roger's chest weights on his, their bare legs rub together underneath the blankets and every single part of their bodies are touching, moulded into one curvy being, everything, but their lips.

It occurs Freddie after a few dizzying seconds of breathing the same air as Roger that Roger is waiting for him to close the distance. 

Freddie presses his hand against the small of Roger's back beneath his t-shirt. 

When Freddie tips his chin up to connect their lips in an electrifying kiss, he can't help but moan helplessly at the very first touch. 

Roger chuckles into the kiss, amused and teasing. He grabs a hold of Freddie's jaw and keeps him still for Roger to take the liberty of nibbling on Freddie's lower lip. Blood rises to the surface and his lip swells from the attention and grows more sensitive to the tongue Roger flicks against it moments later. 

Heat ruses to Freddie's face when another noisy gasp leaves his throat. 

It is hard to breathe when Roger keeps pressing his face and entire body as close to him as possible. He keeps crawling up to Freddie, crowding him to the pillows and pressing him against the mattress for as far as his body will go. 

"Please." He puffs out when Roger allows him room to breathe, if only for a second to look down and fumble with the cord on his shorts-- Freddie throws his head back and groans. "Roger."

"Yes." Roger plants a sloppy kiss to his cheek that leaves a chilly wet spot. The pajama shorts come done fast, with the help of Freddie's ass wriggling and Roger pulling them down Freddie's thighs and off the bed alongside the discarded duvet.

Freddie doesn't know what Roger is planning on doing to him. He has never gotten this hard this fast. He never felt trust the way he does now, when Roger climbs off his lap to sit between his legs instead. With that beautiful, ever loving, fond smile of his, he pushes Freddie's thighs apart to lean in between them.

"Oh God." Freddie has nothing to be ashamed of down there. He is clean, well-groomed and sizable, but his face is quite literally burning up at seeing Roger between his legs, with his hair ruffled and doe eyes hooded in arousal, sends a pulse of pleasure to Freddie's already hard cock. He twitches against his stomach, without being touched. Roger chuckles at it, Freddie can feel his breath ghost over the head. He clutches at the pillows by his head, his thighs squeeze around Roger. "Please. _Please_ "

A soft kiss presses against the tender inner side of Freddie's thighs. Roger's lips trail lazily over the stretch marks there. His hands are underneath Freddie's knees to keep them apart and from crushing him. 

"You don't need to beg for me, Fred." Roger kisses him again. Freddie opens his eyes to see Roger situated between his legs, red-lipped and feral eyed. "You just have to ask."

Freddie tries very hard to stop himself from groaning. Instead he curls his toes into the bedding to control how his legs are shaking. 

"Please, suck my cock, Rog. I want you. I've wanted you since the day we met. I've wanted this for so long. I've needed your lips wrapped around my— _Yes_." Freddie lets out an embarrassingly needy moan when Roger complies to his wishes and licks a heavy strip of Freddie's cock that makes it bounce forward and back. Roger immediately repeats the action, and again and again, until he is effectively lapping at the sensitive head of Freddie's cock. 

Precum dribbles steadily from the head instantly licked clean by Roger.

The teasing strokes become too much very soon. Sweat breaks out on Freddie's forehead, beneath his knees and under the bridge of his nose. The sight of his thighs shaking and his skin flushing must do something for Roger, because to muffle his own moans he opens wide and swolles Freddie down to the root in one smooth dip.

The hotwetvelvet _perfectohGod_ sensation of having someone suck you off overwhelms Freddie almost immediately.

He claws downwards for something to hold, but Roger had thrown the duvet off the bed previously and the only one he can grasp onto is Roger's hair. He doesn't care that the sharp tug makes Roger gasp and swallow hard around his length. It only sends a jolt of pleasure down Freddie's groin. 

He moans, head thrown back and hips moving upwards out of instinct. With his fingers tangled in Roger's hair he can keep him still while Freddie thursts up into the perfect heat of his mouth.

He is glad Roger is an experienced lover, he relaxes his throat and moans helplessly around the weight of Freddie's cock, enjoying the ride as much as Freddie. Drool is gathering at the base of Freddie's cock, mixed with his cum. It's filthy and perfect all at once. Roger buries his face in the mess and nuzzles Freddie's pubes when Freddie lets him down long enough to breathe around him.

It is the first blow job he has received since coming back from England. He can't say he is doing a very good job at controlling himself. Freddie desperately grinds his hips up to the back of Roger's throat, much to his amazement, Roger doesn't gag or splutter. He deepthroats Freddie with ease, with pleasure. When Freddie manages to pry his eyes open to look at Roger, just moments before he feels his orgasm hit a crescendo. Roger's lips are swollen and sloppily wet with saliva. The expression on his face reads pure pleasure, his eyes shut in bliss, happy to serve as Freddie's device to reach his peak.

It is the ecstasy on Roger's flushed face that sends Freddie over the edge. Hot cum shoots down the inviting warmth of Roger's slack mouth, suckling on Freddie's cock to get every single drop out of him. 

Freddie doesn't have to keep his hands in Roger's hair, because there seems to be no other place on earth Roger rather wants to be than between Freddie's thighs slurping his cum down like a starving man. 

Time slows down when the pleasure ripples from Freddie's groin slowly to the rest of his body, until he is tingling all over and every muscle tenses, before all releasing all at once and his body sinks into the mattress in a boneless mess and his fingers lax in Roger's heart and gently start prying him off his cock when having those precious lips on him becomes overstimulating.

"Holy fuck." Freddie is panting through his parted lips. Looking at his ceiling with dazed eyes. “I— I love you too.”

He can feel Roger shifts out from between his thighs and gently settle Freddie's legs down on the mattress one by one, before crawling back up to press their lips together in a sloppy kiss.

* * *

  
  
"What's this?"

Freddie's eyes zero in on the opened envelope in Roger's hands. He leans in to snatch it away and clutch it to his chest to hide his mother's looping handwriting against his shirt. "Where did you get that?"

Roger doesn't seem too bothered at being scolded. 

Freddie is standing and he is sitting, so Freddie has both height and bulk on him now. He is upset. He can't recall ever being upset with Roger before. 

"Roger. Where did you get it?"

Freddie watches Roger take a long slip from his drink, maintaining eye contact the all the way down until he puts the glass back on the tabletop and leans back into his chair with a nonchalant shrug. "It was on the doormat, Freddie. Where did you think I got it from?"

"How did she get my address?"

A cold shiver runs down his spine. Suddenly he is lightheaded and suspicious. He walks back to the front door in three long strides and shuts it, locks it with both of the locks at the top and bottom, before collapsing against the door, using his weight to keep it shut, to keep everyone out. 

The letter is crumpled up between his hands. _Roger read it._

He forces his eyes to focus on Roger across the room, Roger hasn't moved an inch from the kitchen, but he has obviously been studying Freddie intently. Any other day he would have been embarrassingly flattered. Today, right now, he is flustered with a rush of emotions he hadn't expected to come home to.

"It's illegal to open someone else's' post, you know." Is what he says. He swallows thickly when Roger doesn't move an inch. No indication he is going to stand up and coax Freddie into calming down.

It hurts a little. The indifferent yet calculating expression on his face that only appears whenever he gets philosophical isn't what Freddie needs now. 

"That was personal." He adds on, to provoke an apology out ov Roger. When he still doesn't get it after a beat of patronising silence, Freddie grits his teeth. "You can't read my mail, for fucks sakes. You can't do that."

It's the last thing he would have wanted, for Roger to know how much of a whipping boy he had been for his father, all his life. Burning hot shame rises up from his chest all the way to the roots of his hair. His knees grow wobbly from the heat that's risen to the surface of his skin. Freddie puts all his weight on the door when they give out beneath him.

Finally, he hears the scratch of the chair scraping over the tiled floor followed by Roger's barefooted pit pattering coming closer towards him.

Freddie is sitting on the dirty doormat, still in his workclothes. Roger sinks down to the floor opposite of him, dressed in nothing but skimpy shorts and one of Brian's band shirts he must have mistaken for Freddie's. 

Roger says nothing for a long moment. Freddie wasn't planning on saying anything himself. His throat is tight with emotions and his teeth are glued together in one tense line.

It is upsetting how casual Roger is acting about the whole affair. It's upsetting he took the liberty to read something that was meant for Freddie's eyes alone. 

Inevitable tears fill in the empty whites of his eyes and he quickly crosses his arms over his knees and hides his face in them. It's perhaps the most childish thing he has ever done in front of Roger, but Freddie will be damned if he cared. The ever-present void in his chest expands when realizing Roger, the only body in Freddie's universe that had orbited safely outside of the voids range. 

The letter is clutched still between his hands, although he's sure to have ruined it now with his tight grip and sweaty fingertips. The blaze of embarrassment over whatever the contents of the letter were cause sweat to pour out of him, stick to his clothes and hair uncomfortably. 

The silence stretches on until forever. There is Freddie going through an existential crises and Roger, sitting cross-legged with his arms lazily folded over his lap. 

"Your mum, she sounds very nice y'know." 

It's the last thing Freddie expects Roger to say. The words surprise him at once, there are hundred things he wants to say and wants to make clear and ask. 

Perhaps he should man up and just read the letter. 

Perhaps sometimes it is best not to know. 

"Hm." Is what comes out.

There is another beat of silence. Freddie resits poking Roger with his toe to get him to say something else, something good, a miracle, about the letter.

"I visit my mum." 

Freddie lifts his head up and gawks. "You do?" 

Roger nods very slowly, Freddie is finally able to place the thoughtful expression on Roger's face. "Every Sunday morning I put on something decent, take the train, pick up some flowers at this little shop next to the station and see her." 

Back when Roger lived with Trevor, Freddie just assumed Roger likes to sleep in on Sundays. Now that they live together, Freddie just assumed got places to be. Other places. _Gay_ places, whatever they may be. Freddie doesn't know. What he didn't expect was for Roger to put on his Sunday best clothes and visit his mothers in the suburbs.

"...Does she know?" 

Roger doesn't miss a beat. "She does." He says and then lifts a casual finger to the letter in Freddie's hand. "You should visit your mum Freddie. Let her know you're doing okay." 

_Doing okay? He_ — Freddie swallows thickly. _Is he doing okay per their definition too? He isn't so sure. His father never liked the direction he was going in, although his mother had been supportive of his art and the only reason why he was allowed to go to England to study. But he isn't doing art. He isn't doing anything he wanted to do when studying art. He took the first job that could pay him weekly. He hasn't been able to afford art supplies and get any practice or commissions done. He is certain that his mother would be disappointed to hear what has come from him. But perhaps not because he is working in a store and living with a sodding musician, but because Freddie hasn't been able to flourish creatively forced on a budget that doesn't fit his lifestyle. He hadn't thought about it in those terms yet. She'd been supportive of him, although a little naive perhaps._

_She'd never think he's filthy. She never did think his feminine side as anything less but an attribute to his best qualities. She had never wanted less than the best for him._

However she got his address is a right mystery. From the look on Roger's face, Freddie shouldn't be bothered focusing on the tiny details. 

"Visit her." 

Freddie's eyes had gone unfocused. He turns up to Roger again. "She'd love you for saying that."

Roger smiles, but his smile is sad where the lips grimace downwards at the corners. 

Freddie's own grin falls at the sight. "What is it?" He asks. Roger just shrugs. 

"The world is changing." 

Scotting closer, Freddie puts a hand over Roger's knee. He furrows his brown when a crinkle settles between Roger's brows. "Is everything okay?" 

Roger isn't looking at him at all. His expression is lost on the empty floorspace. 

"My mother— that is, Paris, she was diagnosed. With it." It takes a split second for Freddie to realize what Roger meant. Unlike Roger and Trevor, he hasn't lost hundreds of friends yet. But he knows Paris, he remembers the encouraging hand on his shoulder before a ball. He remembers her charm and grace as she passed over the dance floor, how she commanded the respect of everyone who dared lay eyes upon her. 

The words feel helpless and worthless, but Freddie cannot keep them to himself. He clutches at Roger's hand and drags it into his own lap. "Oh Roger... I'm so sorry." 

"Nothing to be done about it." He shrugs with one shoulder, but tears burn behind his glassy eyes. He grips Freddie's hand back, with no intention of letting go and shows off his tears without an ounce of shame, the way Freddie hopes to be one day. 

"Visit your mother, Freddie." 

The words press right through his chest into his heart. He clutches the letter with the same strength he squeezes Roger. He ducks in for a wet and chaste kiss on the lips. Roger's mouth is slack in response, he audibly deflates when their skin brushes gently. 

Freddie opens his eyes to blink up at Roger dazedly. 

"Only if you come with me."

* * *

  
  
The front door of the house swings open even before Roger and Freddie have made it onto the lawn. Jer flings the door open and herself into the garden with the bright smile that crinkles the corners of her eyes in delight.

"Oh! Farrokh! You made it home. Bomi," She calls back into the house, before she shakes her head fondly and wraps her arms around Freddie before he has the inclination to turn back around and disappear again. Her grip is desperate. "Look who came back home."

Freddie buries his face in the curler rolled strands of her hair. The clean strands smell like tangerine and lemon, the way it always has. He pulls her tight against his chest to let her know he felt the same in losing her.

Moments later his father appears in the doorway, Freddie looks at him from over his mother's shoulder. 

Not every lingering sense of rejection and shame melts in the sun of his fathers presence, not in the magical Hollywood happy ending way, but Freddie's heart beats a little slower when he takes in his fathers face.

Freddie has never seen his father look so utterly relieved. Freddi breaks his hug with Jer to turn his body to his father. 

"You are back." Bomi whispers. "You— You're back."

"And you brought company," Jer hip-checks Freddie out of the way to reach for Roger with two arms. "Oh you should have called, I would have prepared better. Who are you, dear?" 

Roger's smile stretches from one ear to the other and allows Freddie's mother to take his hands in hers. "I'm Roger Ma'am."

"Roger, and are you from England? I hear such a lovely accent if I am not mistaken."

"I am indeed."

"Oh how lovely," She starts leading Roger towards the house without waiting for Freddie to follow after them. She does look over her shoulder to send him a wink. "And where did our Farrokh find you?" 

"Oh that's a long story ma'am I'm not sure where to start." 

"Well start where it began, dear!"

Their chattering continues when they are well out of earshot. Freddie's heart rate has picked up again watching Roger brush past his father and submerge into the place that had caged Freddie for longer than it should have. He is swallowed by the void that Freddie so long had failed to conquer.

Bomi is watching him gain now that Roger has gone, although he had given the other man a suspicious glance while Jer had taken him under his wing. 

"Are you coming in?" He asks in an uncertain, clipped tone. 

He waits patiently for Freddie to make the decision for himself whether he was to return or not. The sight of the house still fills him with dread and brings back a fresh flood of negative emotions that grip him tight around the heart. 

Freddie wasn't sure about seeing his father as much as he wanted to see Jer and Kash. 

He takes a deep breath and tips his chin upwards. 

If he unfocuses his eyes, he can imagine the entrance to the hallway as the open floor of the ballroom. If he relaxes his shoulders, he can feel the makeup stick to his skin and the lashes glued heavily over his lids. 

If he envisions the spectators, his father's gaze drowns away in the crowd and with his head held high, Freddie prances past him into the house.

* * *

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please let me know if you liked it ❤️


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